On My Love for Food
I don’t know why I love food so damn much. I didn’t grow up in a big family, or with any special food tradition. Growing up I only knew of basic, repetitive meals. Always homemade, absolutely. But never remarkable or particularly interesting.
I grew up in a tiny household consisting of my mother, my brother and I. My mom worked insanely long hours and my brother and I got to see little of her. She did, however, make a point of feeding us food as good as her knowledge, time and budget allowed for.
Every morning, she got up between 4 and 4:30 to make lunch. Then she squeezed enough orange juice to fill 3 glasses — in a hand-operated citrus extractor — and proceeded to try to get me out of bed. I’m the oldest, I guess that’s why I had to go first. Let me tell you that Bogotá at 5:30am in the 80’s was COLD. And we didn’t have hot water but my mom wouldn’t let us leave the apartment without taking a shower. That might explain why a breakfast without a “taza” of piping hot chocolate simply didn’t make sense back then.
Without fail, my mother served us the delicious orange juice followed by the chocolate caliente, eggs and almohábana, arepa, or some other bread product. Every. Single. Weekday. Morning. By the time my brother and I were done eating, she was gone to work.
Back home after school, my mom finished making lunch and we ate together when it was possible. Meals consisted of lentils, red beans, stews and soups, seasoned with tomato, garlic, onion and cilantro, and always served with white rice. It was solid and safe food and I always looked forward to it. Afternoons went by quickly, as she had a whole other work shift in the evenings.
As I said, nothing remarkable. Except for my mother’s commitment to feeding us at home despite being chronically sleep deprived. We got to eat out — that is, go for a burger or a slice of pizza — a couple of times a month.
It was only after I rented an apartment by myself for the first time that I started to cook. I was in my late 20’s and living in New Jersey. My mom had suffered through severe burns on her forehead from handling a gasoline stove as a child and I had got my own share of third-degree hot chocolate burns on my shoulder when I was five. As a result, she never let my brother or me too close to the pots even after we upgraded from gasoline to natural gas.
I was a kitchen novice who was getting sick and tired of Chinese take-out. Armed with a large plastic cutting board and the best chef’s knife I could afford, I proceeded to outfit the itty bit of hall space that was my kitchen and to…learn to feed myself.
This was my saving grace: I had, by then, waited tables for a couple of years, and had come to realize that, for me, the most interesting place in the restaurant was the kitchen. I had never been as engaged as when I observed the two dynamo Mexican guys behind the line “firing tables” like boom boom boom. What a show of dexterity and skill. Just two of them covered all the kitchen stations in a perfectly orchestrated choreography, from 6 to 11pm in winter and summer, without fail, putting out pretty decent food that people came back for time and again.
I didn’t (want to) neglect my job… too much, but I did spend every minute I could back there, just watching them. And I just picked it up! I learned to cook by mere observation.
My love affair with food got a notch more serious when I went to work at a different restaurant. This one was “fine dining,” which meant many more people in the kitchen and much longer to turn a table. But it also meant a whole new array of ingredients, techniques and textures, and I ate it all up with gusto and curiosity. Food pushed its way into my heart and cooking it became my main form of self-expression.
Years later, after many more restaurants and after building a whole career around cooking and healthy eating, food continues to be my foundation and cooking the darling that I go back to most every day. The utilitarian commitment to home cooking I learned at home developed into something beautiful that my mother never had time to experience. A commitment that now, as Hugh and I start this new life project, takes on a whole new meaning. I will now attempt to grow my own food.
I mean… what else is there to do for someone who is as crazy about food as I am?
What else is there to do for someone who is as crazy about food as I am?
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Lovely👍🏼
I enjoyed reading about how you came about enjoying cooking and the way your mom showed her love as well through cooking for her kids! I look forwarD to hearing more about the adventure!
From One “foodiE” to another, i loved this blog. I only wish there were a way for me to sit at your table!
Hugh will grow to love this change in his life.
As a rule, i think men are resistent to change, especialLy when it involves whEre they’re going to live.
He will thank you one day as you put another wonderful meal in front of him, and will lament the years lost for not making the move sooner.
I would marry you if i could…to be able to eat your cooking every day would be a dream of mine!
Thank you for your sweet comment Betty!