Over the last few months I’ve been doing my fair share of cooking, but really less than my fair share of writing. Preparing meals for my family has been a joy; playing with ingredients and creating memorable moments too. The gift of time has been a blessing in my life and, truly, not one that I’ve taken for granted. And while time, and how I’ve decided to spend it, is important, I also got to thinking about the gift of food and how we learn to share love. When I close my eyes I can still smell red sauce cooking in my grandmothers basement kitchen, red pepper flakes and heat tickling the inside of my nostrils, as my mouth watered in anticipation of tasting her earthly talents.
Read MoreWhen my mother took out her old brown crockpot, a classic I wish still worked or that she’d have passed down to me, I knew there was only one meal to be made - her classic beef stew. Filled with vegetables, beef (clearly), a heavy pour of red wine, I loved watching her assemble all ingredients in the crockpot and plug it in before she left for work at the bakery.
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