When I think of what the heart and soul of my childhood homes were, undoubtedly it was the kitchen. It’s not that our kitchen was a state-of-the-art piece of architecture with a grand slab of marble as an island at its center. Quite the contrary. And that goes for both homes I grew up in, in Jerusalem and Denver.
In Jerusalem, it was a tiny room just to the left of the entryway, within our tiny apartment. My parents laid the wheat colored wood paneling on the kitchen cabinets themselves. I can still remember them nailing the wooden rustic red trim with their own hands, as well as screwing in the plain, modern and round black knobs and handles.
We did have a neat little bar with high wicker stools — unusual for the time and place, which I suppose made them more whimsical and special to us.
But it really wasn’t any physical dimension of the kitchen itself that made it the center of our home. It’s what transpired there throughout the days, the weeks, the years . . . that made the kitchen the soul of our home. It’s where things happened. It’s where, in a sense, we came to know each other and became a family. A place where meals were shared, days — good or bad — discussed and sorted out, where conversations developed and expanded, our bodies and hearts nourished, and recipes tried and discovered — together. It was the place we lived and grew in.
Winters, whenever I woke up in the morning, no matter how early, no matter how cold, my mother would be up, standing against the large warm stove stirring a hot pot of oatmeal for us. That is how each day began. In the kitchen. And that is how each day ended. In the kitchen.
Cooking is one of the legacies my mother has passed on to me and my siblings. A few friends of mine, separately, have recently asked me why I enjoy cooking. What is it about cooking that I enjoy? Why do I do it?
As the oldest of six children, when I was growing up, cooking is just what I did. That is how we spent time with each other. That is how we bonded, especially on Thursday nights and Friday afternoons preparing for Shabbat or holidays. But there was more: picnics to prepare, birthdays to celebrate, chores to do — and sandwiches or pasta dishes to invent with whatever few ingredients were in the refrigerator when the kitchen was close to empty.
So yes, a huge part of my joy in cooking comes from home, and I owe that to my mother! She is a serious recipe collector if ever there was one, and has always been a passionate recipe experimenter. “Ema,” she is my cooking inspiration!
My mother predates the term “foodie,” but make no mistake about it — that is exactly what she is. And what she ingrained in pretty much all of her children.
She is a master at concocting ingredient combinations that make you swoon, and thinks of all the ingenious “secrets” that round a dish out from good to heavenly.
When it comes to neuroses about bread freshness, however, she is not alone. My father is my mother’s partner in crime. A loaf of bread or challah is out of the oven and not frozen or eaten two hours later? Day old bread! It is relegated to the stale bread category worthy of recipes such as french toast, challah kugel or bread pudding.
In our life, what was wholesome, cocooned, and mostly simple — the kitchen and, by extension, cooking — became a place and an opportunity to savor small pleasures and find joy in small, tangible, flavorful things.
That has stayed with me.
While other families may have been getting excited over a new shiny and fancy car, the latest television set, a faraway vacation trip or item of clothing — we were, with great curiosity and anticipation — wondering what the new Wednesday night dinner, Shabbat or holiday recipe dish might be.
Sunday night was always leftovers. Monday — often, pasta with meat sauce (or grillers), garlic bread and salad. Tuesday — unbelievably succulent salmon, prepared in many different ways, one more delicious than the next, plus asparagus and baked potato. Thursday — pizza, also widely varied. But Wednesday?
We never knew. It was always a surprise. Maybe it was golden saffron rice with julienne carrots and peppers. Maybe it was a rustic tomato tart from The New York Times food column or another, unknown source. On Shabbat and holidays there were the traditional recipes we came to expect and look forward to, but always new flavors, spices and foods awaited us, too.
So, why do I enjoy cooking? Gosh, I have barely gotten started. I feel like I have so much to say. But, for now, I will leave you with this memory that started it all . . . in the kitchen.
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