I’ve been enjoying food — cooking it and eating it — all my life. I learned what I know about cooking from my mother, who loves to cook, and from my Dad, who comes from an Italian family and taught me everything from how to make mozzarella cheese to the correct way to pronounce covatelli (it’s “gavadeel,” by the way).
I cook, and I bake, whenever I can. My speciality is Indian food — my spice cupboard is filled with coriander, and turmeric, and garam masala, and all the other wonderful seeds and notions needed to fill my kitchen with the wonderful aromas of a really steaming rogan josh.
And bread. I love bread. Maybe it’s the Italian in me, but I find the making of bread to be not just rewarding, but actually therapeutic. There’s something quite powerful about the feeling of dough in your hands, the kneading and shaping of it into something so much greater than simply a mix of water and flour and yeast.
I’m lucky to have a foodie family. My daughter Amina is learning my skills from me, just as I learned them from my mother, and my husband Steve, not a complete slacker himself in the kitchen (in fact, lately he’s somewhat taken over from me on dinner duty; having tasted his 24-hour tomato sauce, I’m not entirely complaining), appreciates my efforts so much that cooking is a joy.