My New Favorite Quote

"You have to love either what you are going to eat, or the person you are cooking for. Then you have to give yourself up to cooking. Cuisine is an act of love."

 I read this in The Flavor Bible by Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg. They were quoting chef Alan Chapel (1937-1990), and I don't believe I've ever read anything about cooking that I felt was so profoundly true: to create good food, you truly need love. Cooking is passionate, full of more than just what you see, and while it is often about what you are cooking, it is often also about why you cook, or rather, who you cook for.

I think the best example of this happened sometime around freshman or sophomore year, when I was 14 or 15. At this point, I had been regularly preparing dinner for the family for 5 years, cooking for around 10. My mom taught me most of what I knew, along with the Food Network. When I reached middle school, my grandpa started telling me about old dishes my grandma used to make. He'd give me vague instructions, like, "Slice the steak and stew it with vegetables and tomato and stuff." Whenever he gave me these simple recipes, I'd replicate it many different times, hoping he'd say "Wow! That tastes just like your grandma's!" The first few tries usually yielded little more than "Try adding some salt" and a half eaten plate, but I never gave up.

I had this sort of need to try to make food the way my grandma did. Part of it was that I wanted to feel more connected to her, this woman that my grandpa and parents felt could walk on water and cook for the gods; I wanted to be able to cook just as well as if she taught me herself. Part of me has always known that if she were alive, I'd know all her recipes by now. The main reason I was so adamant about cooking her old food, however, was because I knew just how much my dad and (especially) my grandpa missed her and her food. I wanted to bring to them the food they ate 30 years ago, just because I knew it would make them happy, and I want my family to be happy. That's what cooking is about.

The first time I made tacos with my papa's vague instruction, my grandpa ate two. Two. Every time I'd ever made tacos before he told me how to do it, he'd only eat half of one, maybe a full one. I knew I was onto something, so I continued to perfect the recipe. Soon, I was devoting whole days to making the perfect taco. Then, one day, my grandpa asked for seconds. And then thirds. He ate six tacos that night.

"I didn't think Papa could eat that much!!" I had exclaimed to my father. "I've seen him eat 10 taquitos from his favorite vendor on Olvera Street. If he likes it, he won't stop eating until his stomach is about to explode. It just takes a lot for him to like something," my father had replied.

Once my grandpa finished his meal, he said, "Just like your grandmother's!"