Want to know a lot about a person in under five minutes? Ask them to list some of their favorite smells. They may look at you funny, but go ahead, ask.
Here are a few of mine:
Smoke, especially from fall leaves raked into a backyard fire, Nag Champa incense, cigarettes as long as they're outside. Garlic sizzling in olive oil. Parmesan cheese. Jasmine. His warm skin first thing this morning. The green stem of a tomato on a vine. Churches. Onions grilled in a taco wagon at 3am. Ripe old leather. Basil. Wild strawberries. The cork, fresh pulled from a luscious Pinot. The ocean when it's windy. The scruff of my cat's neck. Wet pavement 3 minutes into the first rain. A just split cucumber on a 90 degree day. Lilacs. Popovers 20 minutes after you put them in the oven. Pepper syrup. 18 year old Glenfarclas, warmed by hand. Snow. Carnitas at "El Farolito". My mom's cabbage pie baking in the oven, meaning guests are on their way. Any orchestra pit in the world.
The word kitchen is embedded in my last name, and so it is not surprising that I come from a family that loves to cook as much as eat. In my family, feeding someone is an expression of love, and as much as I've tried to instill in both my mom and her mom that a lot of love does not have to equal a lot of food, I've failed every time. So while I inherited the ancestral fondness for throwing dinner parties, I didn't want to intimidate my guests with a table creaking with food no matter how delicious. Besides, the women in my family don't keep recipes so I had to find my own way. It all started with an illicit affair with Chez Panisse.
Ever since I was a little kid I've loved going out to eat, but my inner foodie woke up when I started dreaming of dinner behind those ornamented wooden gates. I don't remember how I first heard of it, but I do remember making frequent trips to worship at the altar of their menu, and while my fellow teenagers were getting their high off other things, I got mine from the smell of Chez Panisse's wood burning oven, trying to imagine the various smells as tastes on my own tongue. Not being able to actually eat there I tried to make it mine another way. I watched Marcel Pagnol's films, basking in what I felt was an insider's understanding of the restaurant's name and then slowly acquired all their cookbooks and started throwing my own "Chez Panisse" dinner parties. Making the food, I absorbed some of the philosophy of the kitchen, internalizing the gospel of fresh seasonal produce. I was forever spoiled for Safeway and ready to out my inner foodie.
Years later, I've thrown dozens of dinner parties, and tried hundreds of restaurants. I love being asked for food recommendations and delight in buying a new Zagat every year to mark and count all the restaurants I've been to. (I know it's totally OCD and I don't care.) When I eat well all my senses are open; a good meal tingles every nerve ending, keeping me fully alert. So it is not surprising that I remember what I eat in great detail.
Here are a few of mine:
Smoke, especially from fall leaves raked into a backyard fire, Nag Champa incense, cigarettes as long as they're outside. Garlic sizzling in olive oil. Parmesan cheese. Jasmine. His warm skin first thing this morning. The green stem of a tomato on a vine. Churches. Onions grilled in a taco wagon at 3am. Ripe old leather. Basil. Wild strawberries. The cork, fresh pulled from a luscious Pinot. The ocean when it's windy. The scruff of my cat's neck. Wet pavement 3 minutes into the first rain. A just split cucumber on a 90 degree day. Lilacs. Popovers 20 minutes after you put them in the oven. Pepper syrup. 18 year old Glenfarclas, warmed by hand. Snow. Carnitas at "El Farolito". My mom's cabbage pie baking in the oven, meaning guests are on their way. Any orchestra pit in the world.
The word kitchen is embedded in my last name, and so it is not surprising that I come from a family that loves to cook as much as eat. In my family, feeding someone is an expression of love, and as much as I've tried to instill in both my mom and her mom that a lot of love does not have to equal a lot of food, I've failed every time. So while I inherited the ancestral fondness for throwing dinner parties, I didn't want to intimidate my guests with a table creaking with food no matter how delicious. Besides, the women in my family don't keep recipes so I had to find my own way. It all started with an illicit affair with Chez Panisse.
Ever since I was a little kid I've loved going out to eat, but my inner foodie woke up when I started dreaming of dinner behind those ornamented wooden gates. I don't remember how I first heard of it, but I do remember making frequent trips to worship at the altar of their menu, and while my fellow teenagers were getting their high off other things, I got mine from the smell of Chez Panisse's wood burning oven, trying to imagine the various smells as tastes on my own tongue. Not being able to actually eat there I tried to make it mine another way. I watched Marcel Pagnol's films, basking in what I felt was an insider's understanding of the restaurant's name and then slowly acquired all their cookbooks and started throwing my own "Chez Panisse" dinner parties. Making the food, I absorbed some of the philosophy of the kitchen, internalizing the gospel of fresh seasonal produce. I was forever spoiled for Safeway and ready to out my inner foodie.
Years later, I've thrown dozens of dinner parties, and tried hundreds of restaurants. I love being asked for food recommendations and delight in buying a new Zagat every year to mark and count all the restaurants I've been to. (I know it's totally OCD and I don't care.) When I eat well all my senses are open; a good meal tingles every nerve ending, keeping me fully alert. So it is not surprising that I remember what I eat in great detail.
To me food is sacred. It is light and love and passion. It is history, legacy, memoir. It is art. I am incredibly lucky to live in the Bay Area, where many people share my feelings. At the same time, my inner gourmet is constantly battling the girl who wants to eat healthy and be slim as I try to find a balance. This blog documents my adventures.
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