In the beginning

The tale of how I came to cook and dig. Not all at once. Wouldn't want to lose anyone. Not that anyone is watching.

My first memories:

1. Peeing on my mom at Cherry Street church when she left the diaper off me too long (yes, I remember this, before I was two). Her laughing at me. Me laughing with her. She is still the most beautiful woman in the world to me.
2. Stacking cans in the kitchen, pretending to make something wonderful.
3. Julia Child. I would patiently wait all week until she came on. She would describe miracles of taste and then, astoundingly, prepare them. I learned from her, joy in preparation.
4. The Galloping Gourmet. He was the laughter after the learning from Julia. This wonderful thing, cooking, could be fun! There is quite a difference in joy and fun.

When I was about five years old, before I went to kindergarten, my mother finally caved in to my pestering. I wanted to help cook, dag nab it, and I was going to help! One Saturday morning she pushed a chair up to the stove and I cooked the pancakes. That was it for me. Baking was officially in my bones. And on my fingers. Definitely appealed to my messier side.