"And woman I will try express, my inner feelings and thankfulness…"

I was fortunate enough to grow up on the apron strings of not one, but two amazing grandmothers. To watch their zen-like movements in a kitchen was not just a matter of experience, but also one of grace. I spent countless hours rolling out dough for buñuelos, learning how to roll a lime with the heel of my hand, practicing the deceivingly difficult preparation of perfectly cooked rice, and waking in the wee hours of morning to spit roast a pig until the meat was juicy and moist, the fat was translucent and buttery, and the skin was crisp and crackling. Were it not for these two women, I don’t know that I would’ve fallen in love with both the alchemy of cooking and the art of feeding others.

Growing up alongside women like these in a kitchen, I learned to put all my senses to work, not just taste. Sure there was a clock on the wall somewhere, but you gauged when a piece of meat was done by pushing on it with your finger and feeling for its resistance. Perhaps the timer had been set on the counter somewhere, but you knew intrinsically when those pastries in the oven were ready because you smelled it. And even though there were measuring spoons that had long gone rusty gathering dust in a drawer somewhere, you could easily determine how much of each spice you were using by how much space they took up in the palm of your hand. Instincts like these are priceless to have now, though they don’t always make for good recipes when you’re a blogger. In fact, I think most of you would go find something else to read if I were telling you to simply poke your steaks, eyeball your spices and smell your pastries…then again, that sounds just like something I’d do, doesn’t it?

As I got older, the sad truth is that they did, too. While I was beginning to explore other flavors outside the cocoon of Cuban cuisine, their hands were becoming unsteady, their noses were losing their acuity and their eyesight was unreliable without the help of thick prescription glasses. It was at that point in our lives that I was able to become a teacher. Oftentimes, one of them would sit at the table with me while I chopped veggies to top a bruschetta, or ask questions about the assembly of a lasagna. They would willingly try flavors that didn’t exist in their kitchens, like a brown butter sauce with sage, a luscious béarnaise on a thick cut of steak, or a nutty baklava. I found myself returning a favor I thought was unrepayable, by teaching them. And when they could no longer whip the egg whites for the meringues, my strong arms would do it for them. I became an extension of them, tasting, adjusting, balancing.

To this day, when I work in my kitchen, I work through them. It doesn’t matter how many volumes of culinary information I’ve picked up along the way, how many cookbooks line my shelves, or how many intriguing ingredients have found homes in my cabinets—the reason I cook the way I do is because of these two priceless women. And I’m sure that they both look down on me every now and again, and silently shake their heads thinking I’ve put way too much vanilla in my flan.

Tagged as: learning to cook