Where the passion began
Growing up the kitchen was the heart of our home. It was the gathering place for friends and family. The warm embrace of a small space that seemed to fit everybody just right.
6 of us rounded the table on a regular basis. Breaking bread was about more than just food. It was the opportunity to share the triumphs and challenges the day held. It was a time to communicate and add another layer to the family dynamic.
I grew up in the kitchen. Following around the matriarchs of our family while trying not to get in the way too much to be sent from the room. Some days it was a delicate balance. You win some, you lose some.
My Grandma was a meal magician.
She could take a fridge of leftovers and turn it into a brand new meal. You would never know it was parts of several meals combined until you peeked in the sink to see all the little empty bowls. She was the master of the light as air cream puffs that appeared in a minute. The spongy lemon poppy seed angel food cake was a stable anytime we visited.
My Mom is my teacher.
Patiently explaining the basics as we went along creating together. Brown sugar is packed, level your measure cups and spoons, don’t overwork your pastry and most importantly read your recipe through before you start. A variety of techniques and methods that are the foundation of my culinary expression.
Those are some of the influences that are instilled in my life today. I hold dear the little feet that follows me around the kitchen floor, the little hand that attempts to grab what is just within reach and the mind who is eager to learn. Patience is a virtue as the days go by and I slowly pass the torch to my daughter. Our kitchen is the heart of our home. It is the place where we come together as a family to inspire each other, laugh, cry and dance.
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