I’ve always been a pretty self-righteous girl. It’s never been ok with me to be the automatic ‘cook’ or the possible housewife. In fact, like my 3-year old is now, I always rejected whatever was expected of me. At least by society. And so I avoided the kitchen. AVOIDED. The kitchen, to me, was a place from which to steal a spoon of cookie dough if my mom was distracted by a phone call. And then I had my own kitchen – and I automatically gave it up to whatever housekeeper or nanny came through my house. And about a year ago, everything changed. I’m not sure if it was a conscious decision or not but suddenly, in January of 2009, I was cooking.
I spent the last year looking up recipes on websites and tweaking them to my liking (or to my level of energy). I cooked through my pregnancy (April-December) – relentlessly. And then tried to keep cooking on and off through my first two months of chaos with the new baby and work.
And finally, tonight, for the FIRST TIME – I made up a dish and it turned out SUPER YUMMY.
So I decided it was time to start a blog.
(The logic of the sequence may only be obvious to me.)