I love food. I’ve bonded with roommates over how to best prepare rice (to us, the only answer possible was “by pushing a button and coming back when the rice cooker has done its work”). I’ve deboned a duck then dreamed of eviscerating a lobster. And I’ve been asked while blogging during holidays to post more pictures of the famous landmarks we were visiting and fewer photos of what we were eating. I can’t help it. I’m my parents’ daughter.
My sister and I grew up in a house full of food–American, Canadian, Quebecois, Japanese, Indian, you name it. My parents are passionate about cooking and some of our favorite and most frightening stories (like the time we almost set the house on fire after attempts to flambe turned into four-foot-high flames smoldering under the cabinets) are from times in the kitchen.
I’ve been lucky: I’ve never found cooking to be particularly difficult. Unlike baking, cooking is something that you really can’t get that wrong (which is why I tend to cook far more than I bake, despite housemates with hollow legs and occasionally insatiable sweet tooths). When baking, you need to level your teaspoons and tablespoons, fold the batter in just right, knead the dough not too long but not too short either. When cooking, you can just throw together whatever you have–as long as creativity and sense of adventure are among your ingredients–and at the end of your experimenting, you’ll most likely be able to plate something that is palatable. Sure, you will fail, but that’s part of the fun of it.
This blog is about my adventures in cooking and consuming. Spurred by recently joining the Eatwell Farm CSA and reading about the inspirational (in the kitchen and in life) Julia Child and fueled by a love for food and writing, here is where I’ll chronicle me, eating.