My life has always been about food. Every part of it somehow revolves around something you can put in your mouth. "Remember Young Frankenstein? We watched it a few years ago, you, your dad and I." Oh yeah, we had fettucini alfredo that night. I wanted to put artichoke hearts in, which were delicious, but then dad ruined it with zucchini. Or that time at the Grand Canyon, when we were finding shapes in clouds. What did I see? Ice cream, hot dogs, you get the idea. As a kid, I even managed to rewire my brain so that words taste like food. (Lexical-Gustatory Synesthesia, for the curious.)
My mom likes to brag that I've been cooking for myself since I was three. Granted, it was only microwaved oatmeal at the time, but my repertoire expanded, slowly but surely. A family friend, Martha Leche, gave me the
Joy of Cooking for my First Communion. It was love at first sight. Actually, I think it kind of scared me at first, but I ended up using it so much that I had to buy a new one a few years ago since it was falling apart so badly. I think the moment I realized I could actually cook anything I wanted to was a few days before my ninth birthday, when I told my mom I wanted turkey lasagna for my birthday dinner. The kind we had usually bought, Michaelangelo's, had been discontinued. "Okay, then make it yourself," was her response. I can't do that! Thankfully, she had more faith in me than I did. She found me a recipe, bought the ingredients, and set me loose in the kitchen.
-To be continued...-
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