I was around ten years old in my Sicilian Grandpa's steaming, hot kitchen. I stood there where I had stood many times, watching him intently, marveling at his mastery, wondering if this could be the day when I finally worked up the courage to ask him how, ask him why, ask him if he felt that I was even worthy of knowing what only he seemed to know.
My intimidation was not soothed when I scanned his open kitchen. All around us were different sized pots steaming with various bubbling contents, scattered spices everywhere, who's purposes were so mysterious it was truly daunting. The kitchen was filled with whole pieces of red meat and gleaming, washed fresh vegetables, all demanding their counter space, seeming so alive. There was all of my Grandpa's favorite tools sprinkling the whole space, some in sturdy cylinders by the stove, others hanging from hooks from the ceiling and walls, all well used and old, but somehow still shiny and radiant. Like magic, it was all like true Alchemy.
That was the day when I finally mustered up the courage to humbly ask for the honor of knowing his trade secrets. Holding my breath as I waited for his answer, he looked at me side ways, seeming almost to be sizing me up. Is she ready? I imagined him asking himself inside of his head.
After what felt like forever, my Grandpa finally mumbled gruffly, "Grab a pen." I almost died on the spot when I realized that my request had been accepted.
Ten year old me outwardly squealed as I rushed to grab the nearest pen and tablet of paper, anxious that if I was not quick enough, he might change his mind.
I know now that that was the day I was in. At that moment in time, the magic of flavor became something that I could study, hold in my hands and best of all, share with those I love.
My intimidation was not soothed when I scanned his open kitchen. All around us were different sized pots steaming with various bubbling contents, scattered spices everywhere, who's purposes were so mysterious it was truly daunting. The kitchen was filled with whole pieces of red meat and gleaming, washed fresh vegetables, all demanding their counter space, seeming so alive. There was all of my Grandpa's favorite tools sprinkling the whole space, some in sturdy cylinders by the stove, others hanging from hooks from the ceiling and walls, all well used and old, but somehow still shiny and radiant. Like magic, it was all like true Alchemy.
That was the day when I finally mustered up the courage to humbly ask for the honor of knowing his trade secrets. Holding my breath as I waited for his answer, he looked at me side ways, seeming almost to be sizing me up. Is she ready? I imagined him asking himself inside of his head.
After what felt like forever, my Grandpa finally mumbled gruffly, "Grab a pen." I almost died on the spot when I realized that my request had been accepted.
Ten year old me outwardly squealed as I rushed to grab the nearest pen and tablet of paper, anxious that if I was not quick enough, he might change his mind.
I know now that that was the day I was in. At that moment in time, the magic of flavor became something that I could study, hold in my hands and best of all, share with those I love.