I must have been about nine when I got my first urge to create a meal. I remember proudly boiling white rice and chopped up carrots. I carried it from the pot to the table and distributed it to my parents and grandparents.
My mother had a spoonful and pushed it to the side of her plate, carefully telling me she was full.

My father was more blunt: I forgot the salt, he told me. I shed some tears over my failure and learned never to make the same faux-pas again. But my grandfather, on the other hand, ate his serving and asked for more. It may not have been a success, but it wasn’t an entire failure either.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t give up and continued trying to win over my family’s tastebuds. It worked. By the age of 15, I was cooking New Year’s Eve dinner. I made the mistake of cooking 20 servings of couscous for four people, but that’s another story.

Through this blog, I hope to document some of my baking and cooking experiences; share what I learn on the journey; and keep a virtual diary of all things food.

Indeed, as famed food writer M.F.K. Fisher so aptly put it, “When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.”