In my kitchen, I have never cooked by the book and so with plans to start a new food series in the spring, I do have to wonder how the hell I am going to approach it.
Let's start with a little history as I feel it's a safe ground and needs no teaspoons, ounces or those damn American cups.
It all comes from generations of family and love, both of which are immeasurable. Our passion is a sentiment immediately sourced through more than a century of maternal nurture. How much further back than that we are unsure of, but there is one thing that is certain: it is in our blood.
None of us are master-chefs by any stretch of the imagination but we have all emerged with a love for food and more-so than this, a profound joy in sharing it. In fact, it is perhaps this force and not the food that drives us so eagerly.
For me, this came from the hours spent with my grandma in the kitchen learning how to bake or before special events where my mother, grandmother and I would put all hands on deck and set to work.
Our own mealtimes were often quite basic but if there were guests to be entertained, they would charge to the supermarket with me in tow and returning, bundle me into the back of the car with countless bags almost crushing me. Chops, slices and piles of peel later, we'd be prepared for a splendid meal around a maddeningly frenzied kitchen table. There sure are some feisty characters in our family.
And so it is, since flying the nest and moving more times than I care to count, I have turned to sharing food not only as a passion but as my chance to find 'home' in impermanent places; any kitchen table will do.