Remembering

My dad is a wonderful cook. He's owned restaurants, been a GM at a grocery store, and now is opening restaurants again. He's the smartest man I know, and while he didn't receive his education the conventional way, he's one of the best in the business. He's worked his way from dishwasher to owner throughout the span of his lifetime, which to me says more about his passion and his character than a degree in culinary arts could.

I remember being very young and watching my dad make a can of chicken broth and an egg into a culinary delight for 3 girls. On a Sunday afternoon after church he would put together a mezzaluna plate (cheese, deli meat, spreads, dips, crackers) a feast! He's great at whipping something up just out of no where and also planning an extravagant meal that only kings would eat.

He would take us to the restaurants at a very young age, because my mom would be on a trip (she's a flight attendant) and someone would need to watch us. So while he'd be in meetings he would recruit different staff to keep an eye on us. Pastry chefs, receptionists, bartenders, servers, sous chefs, they were all our babysitters at some point. But while he thought we were merely just playing and keeping to ourselves we were keeping a watchful eye of all the inner workings of a restaurant. He would take us to different restaurants outside of his own to probably do research for his own business, but he also did it to explore our palate. We had a love for brie, foie gras, sushi, rare cuts of meat, and food from all around the world. We thought this was normal, we thought that all kids brought Greek food to school for lunch in the 2nd grade.

My mom is also a wonderful cook. Later in life I was always impressed with how she could work all day on an airplane serving cranky people and then rush home to whip up a wonderful dinner for us, who mind you weren't the most grateful. She makes the most wonderful dishes that still to this day I try and replicate when I get a craving for. And she somehow always made it home that night to make us dinner after a trip. I always knew my mother loved us, but to be able to taste it in her cooking was another constant, she didn't have to say it, even though she did. It was in the preparation, taste and presentation of the food she made for us. My mother also helped start our Wednesday night program at church which included a meal. She pulled off a homemade meal every Wednesday night for all the members in our church, mostly single handedly. Her servant heart beats way farther than being a mother, it reaches out to all who want to sit down at a table for a meal.

When I cook a meal, especially for others, I think of my parents. I think of watching their technique, learning how to chop, dice, scramble, whip, mandolin, bake, fry, saute. I know flavor profiles, I know when a dish is being made on the television what it will probably taste like. I know how to create a meal that others will experience, not just fill their bellies with. I think of all of the wonderful meals my palete has experienced because of them. I think of all of the people that have been through our house because my parents had wanted to sit down to a meal with them. I think of the looks on their faces, the look of satisfaction, for creating a meal that others will remember and enjoy. I think of their passion for cooking and for others and am thankful that I have come from such a wonderful legacy.