I often call my mom when I’m making dinner, a habit from years ago when I was fresh on my own in the adult world. She’s an excellent cook, and in those pre-Google days, it was easier to pick up the phone than thumb through a cookbook to find out how long to bake a chicken breast, boil an egg or, as my dad often joked when he answered, toast bread. (Seriously, though, I wasn’t that incompetent.)

Over the years, I learned my way around the kitchen — and developed my own love of cooking. But those phone calls continued.

By the time I met my husband, Mike, I had ventured into recipes much different than those of my childhood. This concerned my mother to no end. Suddenly, our conversations revolved around what my then-boyfriend thought of eating meals involving off-the-wall ingredients like artichokes and quinoa. “Does Mike like that?” she’d ask time and again. I could sense the scowl on her face, the same one I saw when I introduced her to goat cheese.

“He eats what I make!” I finally barked into the phone.

And honestly, Mike does exactly that — happily, I might add. Luckily for me, he was blessed with an adventurous palate, a stomach of steel and, when worst comes to worst, a love of Sriracha that borders on addiction.

Now that you know the story behind this turn of phrase-turned-blog, welcome. I hope you’ll be back often for my reflections on how food nourishes life, and love.


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