I don’t remember much about my childhood. A mere fifteen years have passed, and all of my memories seem to have blurred into a cloudy, jumbled mess. Sure, there are the standouts – when I lost my first tooth or when failed miserably at soccer – but, for the most part, it’s a blur. Amidst this clutter of recollections, however, there is a shiny glimmer of hope. Of the memories that I do have from my childhood, they seem to be focused on one thing: food. 

 

The importance that food has had in my life was apparent from the beginning.

 

My mom’s job required her to be gone for most days of the week, and it was often just my dad and I that were home for dinner. He would cook for us most nights, but after long days at work (which, incidentally, seemed to happen quite frequently), he'd cave and take us to our favorite Italian restaurant.

 

My earliest memories are at Francesca's Amici. I remember sitting in the plush velvet booths, splitting various pasta dishes with my father. I remember struggling to eat linguini with my fork, and my dad lovingly cutting everything up for me. I even remember the bewildered look in the waiter's eyes as I devoured a bowl of clam linguine.

 

"Clams? Impressive.." the waiter mumbled as he observed me with fascination. 

 

My adventurous eating, along with my frequent visits to Francesca's, made my father and me their favorite customers. To this day, the owner claims that I “grew up” at his restaurant. 

 

He also always offers me the clam linguine...

 

***

 

When my parents had my little brother and sister, sneaking out to Francesca's Amici was no longer as simple or as intimate as it used to be. The demands of my siblings were too much for my dad to handle alone. So, our dinners grew to be predominantly at home. My favorite plum colored booth at the restaurant was traded in for a stool at our oversized marble kitchen island as I watched my dad prepare dinner almost every night. I'm not sure how this began, but I do know that I had a role in making the meals my family ate. I always had a part to play in my dad's cooking routine, as if he was entertaining me in a live cooking television show – a show that continued to develop as years passed.

 

The first segment of this series began when I was in elementary school. During this time, my dad focused on teaching me about the ingredients. While vigorously chopping rosemary, he would have me recall the name of the ingredient, the flavors it packed, and what it was doing in the dish. Despite my pleading, he would never let me get in on the action. I think he could sense my frustration with the situation.

I wanted to be a part of the process. I wanted to cook.

 

Instead, he would teach me the lessons of the day and put me in charge of my baby brother's dinner. He set up my brother's high chair right next to the refrigerator, in the heart of the action. He even let me pick out what he was eating, get the food ready, and feed him. I imagine myself mimicking my father's movements as I fed my brother. Perhaps I would grab the jar of food frantically and stir the pureed carrots the way he would stir at the soup on the stove. I remember carefully feeding the orange goop to my brother as if I wanted him to enjoy what I had made him -- picking out just the right bite for him to eat every time. 

 

Eventually, though, I grew older. So did my brother. By the time that the high chair was gone, I had mastered the ingredients in our family's rotation. It was time for a new series, a new challenge.

 

Only a tween, I don't think that my dad felt comfortable with me at the stove or holding a knife. Instead, I learned about the recipes and the cooking techniques that they entailed. I found my place at the counter, often fingering through a worn cookbook of our favorite chef, Ina Garten. 

 

"Okay, Dad, next you have to add one tablespoon of Dijon mustard to the bowl and mix vigorously," I read aloud as he followed my instructions. This, of course, was the one-hundredth time we would eat Dijon-glazed pork tenderloin. My dad knew the recipe, but he would wait on every move until I gave him the go-ahead. This way, I felt that I had a role in the process. I had become his sous-chef. I learned what it meant to baste and poach and truss. I knew there was an art to preheating a pan, picking the freshest ingredients and never – for the love of God – ever burning the butter. Never. 

 

Cooking with my dad was the favorite part of my day. It was our way to bond, our way to create, our way to show our love to the family. At this point, I had no interest in learning about algebra or whatever else my middle school curriculum entailed. Instead, I fell in love with cooking. 

 

As soon as I walked through the door, my homework was neglected, as I turned on the TV to watch 'Barefoot Contessa' on the Food Network Channel. Ina Garten quickly became my personal hero. I watched her whip up meals with awe; sometimes I'd close my eyes and envision what she was doing just based on what she was saying. Did I know what it meant to emulsify? Could I picture a parsnip? Unlike the exams I was taking in school, I aced these self-created tests. 

 

***

 

When high school started, my time in the kitchen dwindled. I began to focus on my classes. I also spent hours at cross country practices and started to prioritize my social life. While I didn't have the time to cook, I still felt just as connected to the food and to my father. 

 

Exhausted and starving, I would come home every night at just the right time to see my dad put the finishing touches on the meal. We’d stick our faces over a pot of boiling tomato sauce, for example, and take a deep breath in. "It smells different this time...rosemary?” I would ask. With a look that was filled with equal parts annoyance and love, his round tortoise-shell glasses would fog up as he smiled and softly nodded.

 

Years later and our relationship remains the same - it's centered on food. When I'm home, I help him in the creative process. When I'm hundreds of miles away, we talk over the phone about what's on the table for dinner that night. It seems that no matter where I am in life, we will always have this connection to bring us closer together. 

 

I know that whatever happens, there will always be food, and, in this way, there will always be my dad. For me, cooking is a sense of family and a feeling of being loved. It's a creative process driven by passion, soul, excitement, adoration -- or whatever aspect of your life needs the most attention on any given day.