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.