In the Beginning

This is my story. I began my cooking training before I could walk. I remember being hoisted up by my grandmother, Anna, and sitting with my bottom on her left arm as she stirred soup or fried pierogi with her free hand.

You'll say that's not training but it was. I was watching dough went from opaque to opalescent, listening to the burble and crackle, smelling the browning butter. I watched Anna turn the cutlets and press on them with the back of the fork. I listened intently to whatever she had to say, "Now we turn down the fire and let it cook." She probably said it in Polish though her native tongue was Magdar.

My grandmother was such a fabulous cook, gardener and seamstress that my mother never really bothered to learn too much. But I sucked in everything Anna taught me. She never talked down to me, she always assumed that I was on the same wavelength.

I was fortunate because I was with my grandmother 24/7. I was also fortunate that she started training me so early because I only had Anna for seven years. Maybe she knew we didn't have all the time in the world.

I don't think about her every day but every day I keep the same kitchen rituals. And I try to pass on not only what she taught me but how she taught me in calm stead voice and with tenderness.