When I was eight years olde I would go to see my great grandmother every Sunday. I’d spend the day with her. My task was to clean all the backs of the chairs around the kitchen table and towel off the wooden handles of the brooms. Pulling the chairs away from the table I’d lay the brooms across each pair of chairs. Her bed would be lined with tin foil and wax paper. We were now ready to make pasta for the week! My earliest memory of her was watching as she swirled that flour slowly into the egg and her smile was as big as ever.
Every holiday we would eat my nana’s pickles with our meal. We would rarely ever eat them otherwise, if we did it was certainly only my nana’s. She made the best pickles. She would spend what seemed like months canning them and she’d have her root cellar lined with the jars. Dozens of tiny custom-made shelves filled with hundreds of glass Ball jars filled with pickles. I had never even tasted a commercial pickle until I was seventeen years olde. What a disappointment. I still have one of her jars, from the 1940’s and I’ve yet to fill it with something but it sits proudly on my shelf.
I shared all that to show you that preparing and cooking food is not only something I do out of sheer necessity to eat but it’s also out of the love of family memories and a heritage that surpasses something you can’t quite replace with a night out to a restaurant. For me, cooking is a constant walk in who I am and where I came from.
I hope you enjoy your visit!