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A Harvest of Inspiration
The Day of the Tomato
Dog Days and Sultry Nights
Some Things You Never Forget
The Philosophical Side of Cooking
Kitchen Magic
The Difference Between Cooks and Bakers
A Universal Language
Seasoning of Love
Simple Pleasures
A Christmas to Remember
Gratitude & Gravy
The Drawing Power of Food
Differences
Communal Kitchen
Echo Cooking
Summer Food
Pleasure/Purpose
Dazzling Meal
Improvise This
The Missing Link
Dream On
Traditions
One Rainy Night
A Question of Time
Simple Life
Joy of Cooking
Store Wars
Healthy Kitchen
Presentation
Baking Bread
Changes
The Present
Summer Memories
On Moving
On Sept. 11
Mindful Eating

I first started writing "Notes from the chef" about 10 years ago when I opened my restaurant Biscotti in 1993.  These "Notes" were inserted into my menu.  It was another way of communicating with my customers.  I knew that nourishment comes in many forms so I couldn't stop with food.  I also wanted to share my thoughts, ideas and observations. I thought it was important for my customers to know who was cooking their meal. Besides, I couldn't resist a captive audience. It is my sincere hope that as I continue to write these "Notes"—each month, you also will feel the warmth --and yes the love—I will continue to send out.  I only regret that I can't feed you as you read.

September, 2004

Memories of Summer

As the summer comes to an end and I contemplate going back to the routine of school and work I naturally give some thought to the flavor of this summer that is quickly fading.   What will I remember about the summer of 2004 when I think back on it in say 2009?  All summers have something memorable about them, something that colors them and gives them expression even if what stands out is that it wasn’t a particularly eventful one.   

For me this summer wasn’t especially eventful, yet I will remember it always.  My mother passed away on June 23^rd, three days after the summer solstice and the official start of summer. She died in her sleep of a massive heart attack. 

She didn’t have a life threatening illness but she was blind from diabetes and had a life long battle with depression. Though I had for the last few years, been helping her release her fear of death, I wasn’t prepared for it when it suddenly came. When I wasn’t doing a cooking demo or writing or giving a cooking class, I was spending my time in quiet contemplation. 

When you think back to times with a beloved parent, you never remember what they gave you for Christmas or what they punished you for.  Instead, if you were lucky enough to have parents who loved you, you remember those times when that love was so apparent you could feel it all through your body.  For me those times were in the kitchen.  I didn’t know then, as I grumbled about chopping garlic, that I would always remember my mother washing the zucchini blossoms, the first delicacies of the summer garden and dipping them into a batter before she fried them.  I didn’t know then that the aroma of fresh chopped parsley would conjure up my mother making croquettes out of leftover risotto as a late afternoon snack for when my father got home from building someone’s new patio.  I didn’t know then that the aromas coming out of her kitchen were so well blended with the love she felt for her family that being in the kitchen was highly contagious and would result in an incurable ‘disease’.  I didn’t know that as I peeled the potatoes, I was preparing not only for a life long passion,  but also for a professional calling.

When people who don’t cook tell me that they just don’t have time; that they’re not good cooks so they just go out or order in; or that it’s just too hard and too much trouble, I always think about what they’re missing.  We often seem to forget that cooking isn’t only about eating.  If it were, today’s conveniences would make cooking obsolete.  I know first hand that the joy of cooking is about the camaraderie that takes place in the kitchen when your kids or your friends or even strangers help you prepare a meal.  I know it’s about being at the kitchen table rolling dough for cookies and listening to your mother and her friends exchange stories about their lives when they were your age.  I know cooking is about sitting at the dining table with your family and staying there for at least two hours with even the grandkids fighting over who is going to talk next. This summer, cooking was about steaming over 10 dozen clams and frying calamari in the dark because I couldn’t find the kitchen’s light switch in my friend Isabel’s beach house. It was about the aroma of cooking seafood mixing in with the smell of the sea in the back yard. 

Did you know that smell is our strongest sense?  More so than even music, aromas can instantly take us back to a time and place we haven’t thought about in years. So, after weeks of quite contemplation, missing my mother, alone in my big house—I now was preparing a traditional Sunday dinner. My home, now filled with kids and friends back from summer vacations and I in my kitchen making the sauce.  The aroma of fresh tomatoes and basil from my garden are cooking slowly on the stovetop and filling the house with my aromatic love.  The loneliness for my mother dissipates and I revel in the joy that now my mother can see me doing what she did for years and for these moments, she is right with me.

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