My oldest daughter and I grew up together, in a sense. It was with her that we took culinary treks into every cooking magazine and flavor of the month I discovered: white asparagus, celery root, chevre, arugula, proscuitto. "Proscuitto!" she would exclaim. "That's my favorite!" She was 5 and open. We brought homemade food to potlucks; she disdained french fries; she had an opinion about everything she ate.
I went to cooking school. In France. I came back and whipped up polenta with wild mushrooms for dinner, rolled out pasta, made my own ice cream. She and I would peruse the grocery aisles, finding new spices, touching and wondering. We took home the "tuna". It looked inedible, but we peeled off that skin to find magenta flesh. We made sorbet. I made margaritas that beamed. "Don't judge a fruit by its flesh!" we laughed. "Spring peas really do taste like spring," I smiled. She picked one up with butter, chives, and lemon zest, and agreed.
I love food, every facet of it: planning a meal so that the flavors roll through the evening, wandering through the rainbow of produce --oh look! jeruselum artichokes!-- chopping and blending, the hiss of the pan and the heat of the kitchen, all become a mantra that merges my hands, my head, and my heart. This journey ends surrounded by family and friends, communing over a snack, a meal, a table.
I consider this taste for a life, a lifestyle, of caring and sharing to be my greatest gift to my daughter. What is a meal prepared if not thoughtfulness and time given to create community? This is an art that can bring people together for the basest reasons and elevate a necessity to an art.
