"Cooking is Like Love. It Should be Entered Into With Abandon."

It is 8:05am in my house and still quiet. I cannot begin to express what joy this brings me. The Husband was very quiet in his departure this morning, and so The Boy and The Little One remain asleep. Big Sister slept over last night since the son-in-law was working the night, and even she made a quiet escape. So I am left to write in peace which puts a big smile on my face. I am acutely aware that it could be interrupted at any moment, so I will enjoy it while it lasts.

I am reading a terrific book called 'A Homemade Life' by Molly Wizenberg. It is a sort of memoir interspersed with recipes that make up her life. I love this kind of book, and even more so since she spent a lot of time in Paris.

I did not grow up in the kitchen learning to cook at the side of my mom. My memories of childhood food are fairly benign. Meatloaf, hamburgers and the occasional pork chop were my mom's fare. It wasn't that she was a bad cook...she wasn't. But she didn't love cooking. It was a chore that had to be done in order to take care of her family. Ms. Wizenburg shares several stories in her book about recipes that she cooked growing up. I only remember 3 recipes from my mom: Pot Roast with cream of mushroom soup, orange bundt cake, and curried fruit. These were all delicious, but you now understand that there was absolutely no coherent set of recipes that defined my childhood. The only memory of myself cooking that I have is relived at every family holiday. When I was 10, my big brother was home from college. I adored him, and I was determined to do something nice for him. I decided to bake some blueberry muffins. I pulled out the box (at that age, I thought every recipe started with a box) and read the directions. I did pretty well until I came to the part that called for "one whole egg". I remember considering this for a moment...and then cracking the egg into a bowl...and then....mushing up the shell and throwing it in too. To this day, I really don't fault myself for that logic. One whole egg is one whole egg. I completed the recipe, popped them in the oven, and when they were complete, I proudly served them to my two older brothers. I remember waiting nervously in the kitchen for their response. Suddenly, I heard them burst out laughing, yelling "She didn't". Well, she did, and that story has followed me around for years. Any company that ever entered our house always got to hear how I interpreted "one whole egg" as "one whole egg".

Fast forward several years, and my next important food lesson came from my best friend Benedicte. She had moved to the states from Paris with her young family, and her family spoke little English. Enter me, another young mother dying to use her college major french...and you have a match made in heaven. Benedict was an unbelievable cook. It didn't matter what was in her refrigerator...she could create a fabulous meal in an hour from anything. At the beginning of our relationship, it totally intimidated me, but like any french woman, she had no patience with that part of me. She basically ordered me to "pay attention and learn". And so I did. My poor cooking skills began to improve little by little. I had plenty of mistakes along the way, but at least I was trying...and there were no more egg shells in any recipes.

A few more years down the road, I met my wonderful mother-in-law, who was also a fabulous cook. I went from trying to be a French cook to trying to be an Italian cook. These days, I have given up trying to be anything but a good cook. Our meals are often rushed...and too often a product of what can be done between work, baseball practice and any other activity. But more and more, I am becoming known as a decent cook...and this pleases me immensely. I even heard Big Sister and Rebel discussing the fact that mine was the best house to be at on a holiday the other day. This was a stellar moment for me, because for years they use to tell me how my cooking would never live up to the cooking of my sister-in-law, Betty. Now I know in fact that it still doesn't, but just the fact that my toughest critics think I am pretty good...well, that's enough for me.

So until tomorrow, when I will compile a small group of recipes that define my cooking...and I will continue to enjoy these peaceful mornings...