You see, she is an amazing woman. She had a 15 minute conversation with the editor in chief of a national magazine about how talented she thinks I am (while wearing a tshirt for this website). I am not so sure that she realizes that the only reason I am successful is because of her.
In our house, the kitchen was the center of the universe. We gathered there, we learned there, we played games there, we cooked there. My mom taught me math problems sitting at the kitchen table while I earned pennies for each problem correct. She practiced French vocabulary with me, and she doesn’t speak a word of it. We cut out the patterns for all the dresses that I wore to dances. Her patience helped me get through everything.
All through high school she thought I was a lost cause. I refused to cook. I told her I was going to be rich and have a chef. Or she was going to have to live with me living at home my whole life. It wasn’t until I got my first apartment in college that I realized that I loved cooking. Or that I thought it was important to gather for meals. Or even that I could make a batch of chocolate chip or oatmeal cookies without having the recipe on hand. I know what to do if I am out of baking powder and don’t have time to run to the store. I know how to pull a meal from a pantry full of unrelated ingredients. I know what spices complement each other. I know how to stretch expensive ingredients and I know what things you just can’t substitute in the kitchen.
I also know that nothing tastes good unless you add a healthy dose of love.
So, thanks, Mom. You made me who I am today