I can’t remember just when it was that I learned to cook. There was a homemade marinara lesson, bestowed on me by someone’s (though I can’t for the life of me remember whose) lovely mom from 4-H, a fancy Belgian waffle recipe (from my own mom of course, who’s never done anything halfway, and taught me to whip up waffles with folded in egg whites before ever even thinking about grabbing for a box of Bisquick) and a creamy berry “goulash” that we used to make after a long day of picking mostly salmonberries, huckleberries, and wild blackberries, but also the occasional thimbleberry (if we could keep ourselves from eating them immediately and actually allow one to make it to the pail) along the dirt road that led to our house.
When I think about learning to cook, my mind wanders over an endless series of moments, flavors, and techniques, but there is no one lesson, no one “beginning” I can point to. Cooking, and even more – baking – feel as if they’ve always been and always will be a part of my life.
I didn’t have an easy-bake oven, but my grandparents had an apple orchard, and both my grandparents and my parents kept a garden. I can see now where every tiny bit of influence over my love of food grew and evolved through the years spent eating raspberries from the bush until my fingers were red. But I’m always learning. And there are a million things out there I’ve yet to learn how to make… more and more that I’m able to tackle each day.
This weekend saw two of those firsts. My first croissants, and my first sabayon.
