While I’m happy in front of the com­puter, trans­fer­ring the thoughts in my head to the screen before my eyes, another place I really feel at peace at is in the kitchen.

I can’t remem­ber the exact moment where I fell in love with cook­ing. What I do remem­ber is watch­ing my mom cook. When she stayed at home with us, she would cook every day. It was a small hall­way of a kitchen. Any­time you opened a door – dish­washer, refrig­er­a­tor, or oven – the per­son on the other side couldn’t get by. I remem­ber the yel­low cur­tains and the smell of baked chicken smoth­ered in cream of mush­room soup.

On hol­i­days, my mom would go into over­drive prepar­ing din­ner. After she returned to work, this would be the only time we could really indulge in mom’s home cook­ing. She still cooked occa­sion­ally but noth­ing like the hol­i­days or when she was a stay at home mom. She would employ my sis­ter, brother, and me to grate cheese, wash greens, and peel pota­toes.  And still to this day, if my mom is cook­ing Christ­mas or Thanks­giv­ing din­ner, you can bet that one of us can be found beside her grat­ing cheese .  She refuses to buy it shredded.

She also refuses to use a cut­ting board. My mom’s a part of the thumb cut­ting party. It wasn’t until later in life when we con­vinced her to get a cut­ting board but I still see her revert back to her old school way which I love her for.

While I don’t remem­ber the moment I fell in love with cook­ing, I know that my mother is behind it. I know I started cook­ing because I wanted to cook like her as an adult. Even though I think I’m pretty good at the what I do in the kitchen, I still call on her for advice. She has a wealth of knowl­edge that I am hun­gry to learn. As she says, “I’ll for­get more than you’ll ever learn.” I can just hope that I come close.