I’ve been told I have a fat soul. And while at first I was offended, it’s probably true.
If cooking is genetic then theoretically I should have inherited it. My maternal grandmother was a caterer for all of Israel’s bigwigs back in the day and my paternal grandmother was a baker/pastry-cook, my uncle followed suit with his own restaurant and both my parents are amazing cooks. I, on the other hand, never really cooked.
When I was a little kid growing up in Canada I experimented with cooking (horrible stuff) and I think my poor parents didn’t do a great job lying – i.e. they had a hard time keeping my gross concoctions down – so I just figured I didn’t know what I was doing. However, I always LOVED food – Chinese, Mexican, Italian – whatever it was, I ate it. As a young adult, I ate out a lot, survived on salads, sandwiches and the occasional omelet and met (and eventually moved in with and married) a man who was great in the kitchen.
Only in my mid-twenties, when we moved to Tel Aviv (right across the street from one of Israel’s best markets) did I reluctantly return to the kitchen. Nowadays, I’ve set up shop in the kitchen it’s hard to get me out of there. I love developing and adapting recipes in my tiny urban kitchen and trying out new restaurants – with a glass of wine in hand and surrounded by good friends.