I’ve always kind of wondered how it happened.
That idea, that instinct, to put something in our mouths, to chew, to swallow, to eat. I mean, seriously. What inspired man to see a dead animal on the ground and think, ‘I wonder what would happen if I cut off a bit of that flesh, put it on some charcoal, and then ate it?’.
Steak, is what happened, my friend. Glorious, delicious, steak.
And so here I am. Thinking about, eating, cooking, researching, craving and frankly, obsessing about food. Over time, you’ll realise I’m not throwing the term ‘obsessing’ about lightly. Seriously, who asks her girlfriends about their lunch plans at 9:30am? We’re still discussing last night’s dinner.
Now, mind you, I’m no Nigella. If there are Domestic Goddesses, consider me the Kitchen Jester. I’m accident prone. Knives, fire, citric acid and I have an uneasy and delicate truce. I misread measurements, provided I actually read the recipe before I started at all. But you know what? That’s how I love to cook. By baptism of fire. Fire being the key word here.
I should probably tell you now, in the interest of full disclosure. my mother is a career cook. And a damn good one. But she never taught me to cook. At least, not like you see on tv.
She’d just point me in the direction of the kitchen, and tell me to work it out. Then swoop in 10 minutes later after losing patience with watching me nearly hack off a limb, or worse, scratch her bench tops.
So really, I didn’t really learn to cook until I moved out of home. I realised then just how well I ate while under my mother’s roof as well as exactly how much I had absorbed from her by osmosis, without knowing it.
Perhaps she had taught me everything she knew, after all.
But that’s also when I found my own joy in food, in cooking for an audience, in creating, sharing, and then indulging. Probably feeling a little sick after, because I ate too much.
So here we are. Putting it all together. And hoping nothing catches fire.