Interpreting My Love of Cooking
Cooking — a most sincere way to show love
I am often asked why I cook. Many of those who know me, would provide a default answer that points, almost in a stereotypical way, to my Italian heritage. As an Italian-American man, often more Italian than American, and at times, often the way around, cooking is is one of the great gratifying rituals of life. Yes, as Italians, and as Italian-Americans, we cook. We love to cook! But there is a lot more to this story and stereotype. So let me think back to earlier times.
I have proudly declared, on more than one occasion in conversations with friends and coworkers, that when “you live in Italy for 10 years with four women … you learn to cook” But I can also think about a time prior to my authentic life in Italy. I am often reminded by my mother about how I , the “mini-me” at the age of seven while living in the North Bronx, made pizzas for everyone from scratch. This included pizza dough, toppings (albeit simple ones), and sauce. I am told I displayed a chef’s attitude and childish love, all packaged in one.
I personally find that acting out my culinary passion in the kitchen an extremely relaxing, rewarding, a “feel good”, endorphin releasing chore. The planning, the preparing, my own dose of histrionics, the sampling of the food as it cooks, the frequent sips of wine…
