I love food. I mean I really love food. I love how beautiful food is, the colors, the textures, the smells. Of course I also love the tastes, but food is so much more than that. Food is culture, food is family, and sometimes food is love.
Some of my most favored memories are of early mornings on holidays. Thanksgivings, and Christmas. Waking, warm in my head, still hazy from sleep, and hearing the sounds of cooking from the kitchen. The clink of bowls and utensils. The laughter of my mother, aunt and grandmother as they prepared the days meal. A meal that we would not eat until late in the afternoon - yet required all the ritual and ceremony of early morning preparations.
It might be complimenting myself, but all the women in my family are good cooks. It's something that has been passed down, mother to daughter, Grandmother to graddaughter. Bits of wisdom and magic, ritual, whispered to each other in the kitchen. My grandmother - My Nana - taught me to bake. I remember the light coming in the window, the smile on her face as she guided my hands in how to kneed dough, or mold cookies, or cut butter into pie dough. It still makes me smile to remember her sneaking a lick of cookie dough from the bowl, or icing from a spatula and declaring it "luscious!"
Nana grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania during the great depression. Food for her was more than sustenance - though it very importantly was that. It was indulgence. The pleasure of eating stayed with her from those days. Whether it was the joy of fresh strawberries, or the frivolity of cream sauce or chocolate, Nana valued each moment of a meal. Food was pleasure, and it was also a way to show your family your love. You nurture your family with your food, you keep them strong and healthy with your meals and the labor you put into them.
A different generation, my mother worked long days, building a rewarding and remarkable career. Yet she always made certain to also make wonderful meals for her family. We had meals together every night. Real meals, with real food. Not pizza or drive through fast food. Casseroles, baked chicken, pasta - vegetable and salad. I never understood the commitment that took for my mother, but I always new the love she put into the meals.
I learned to cook from my mother, standing by her side as she put dinner together, sometimes still in her heels and suit from work. As I got older I took pride in being able to contribute more and more to family meals. Sometimes as I prepared a dinner I would fantasize about what it would be like to prepare meals for myself, off on some grown up adventure. Or for some imagined phantom husband and children. I also began to experiment with new flavors, new combinations. That is the beauty of cooking, it is experiment, adventure and art all rolled into one.
So that is the passion I bring to this project, the passion of my maternal line. The passion of my own imagination and love of food. The desire to nurture myself and my family - balancing the demands of life as a graduate student with the sensibilities of a foodie - on a budget.
