As the story goes, I first started cooking when I was four. My mom charged with me planning for and “cooking” dinner once a week. In the beginning, dinner was pretty Spartan – PB&J on Ritz crackers and English muffin pizza, as I have been told. While they’ve never admitted it, I’m quite certain that my parents ordered Chinese when I went to bed.
Despite a heavy course load and fair share of extra-curricular activities, this responsibility carried through elementary school, junior high and even high school. My recollection is that I felt somewhat ambivalent towards my assignment. Obviously, I didn’t hate it, but I don’t seem to remember much of what I cooked, so I must not have loved it either. The strangest happening of the matter was how the chore did ultimately turn to passion.
A few weeks before my high school graduation, I got a case of, oh how shall I put it?, the runs. Turns out that somewhere I had picked up a pretty bad case of salmonella. It’s still a matter of controversy, but the theory is that it came from the mayo dressing on a fast food hamburger. Suffice to say, anything that went in my mouth went out the other end and fast. To make matters worse, our family doctor misdiagnosed me and, in my weak condition, I wound up contracting mono.
While my high school buddies were enjoying there last days in our home town, I was convalescing on my couch. Not being much of television watcher, I started with books - I had a whole pre-read list for college. I went through those. Then puzzles, 1000 piece puzzles – the appeal wore off. Finally, and ironically given my lack of appetite, I started on my mother’s cookbook collection. I poured over the Julia Child, underlined her Craig Claibourne and starved over the Gourmets. This is what made me a cook.
The book that inspired this series of posts is the one that went untouched. Dusty and a bit smelly, chartreuse in that kitchenette color in vogue back in the 1960’s, Roy Andries de Groot’s Feasts for All Seasons remained on the shelf, pushed aside for more modern pleasures. It seemed old-fashioned, certainly nothing that even a starving 18-year old would give a second look to. But this was early in my cookbook obsession.
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