I grew up across four houses. The common denominator for each was that their kitchen were the most used rooms in the building. Whether it Pop’s, The Madre’s or the cribs of either set of grandparents the stoves and counter tops were the places where there was always something going on.
Some of my earliest memories are of watching my father slice peppers and onions on a counter top far too high for me to reach. He would feed me little slivers, then later pulled up a chair for me to watch and see. There was something magical about the work, even when the goal was as simple as filling the collective family belly. But unlike writing, which came to me like water to kills, cooking was an internship, a training, a course in styles, techniques and the occasional miracle.
This place is a tent in the wilderness, a temporary home where ideas and recipes can find shelter while I build my oasis, after a long walk in the dessert. In the midst of covert challenges and life transitions it has been the kitchen that has kept me sane. The minutes and hours I have spent with knifes, skillets and an assortments of ingredients have made the difference between me surviving and becoming extinct. I am thankful to the Creator for it all, as without it there might not be as much to share with you.
This is the place for the answers to questions posted on pages, the Rosetta Stone for Facebook statuses and how I’ve spent late nights and early morning concocting projects that serves as my writings on the wall as I counted down to the inevitable. As that end is now in sight I feel the need to share. Food travels by word of mouth. But remember to chew before you speak.