I remember one summer making grilled cheese after grilled cheese, experimenting with butter v. margarine (spoiler alert–mayonnaise is the surprise winner), temperature, timing. I’d make them again and again. My ravenous (and not very picky) teenage brother and I would eat them all. He would give (brutally) honest feedback, but my favorite was when he would wander back into the kitchen looking for more.
Before that, when I was three, I was propped up on some step stool, hovering over a pot of hot water–my job was to tell my dad when it started to bubble. We would giggle as we threw in our “secret ingredient” and we would toss the noodles against the wall. Before long, I knew how to make spaghetti.
Our first kitchen was an industrial one. With big gas stoves and a flat top grill, deep freezers and a malt machine. Before preschool, my mom would cook us restaurant-style breakfasts. And I’d take naps with my teddy in a cubby under the deep stainless steel sink.
My uncle Mitch would laugh and laugh with me as he showed me how to make barbecue sauce and seafood salad. We’d make and eat loaf after loaf of fresh bread, each time perfecting the density, flavor, and texture.
Watching my step-dad grill steaks for our birthdays and special dinners is a memory that brings me to tears when I proudly make ribeyes or burgers or wings.
I learned how to roast a chicken long long ago by cooking with my dad. And my mom taught me the basic principles of making a broth out of the Thanksgiving turkey bones.
With my tender tummy, not eating out is challenging–so is scanning ingredient labels. It limits what processed foods I can eat, (I’ve yet to find a decent and affordable box of broth) so the majority of what I eat is from scratch. I’m thankful to be able to nourish myself well. I feel very fortunate to know how to cook while my body needs extra care.
I’ve always loved food and eating and communing over a meal. It hurt so bad when that part of my life was taken from me (food allergies and intolerances), and I’m so so so happy for this joy to be returning to me slowly.
(from the archives)