Freshly made blueberry pancakes every Saturday morning.

The heady scent of garlic that hits you before you even walk in the door, spoiling the surprise of a scrumptious roast awaiting you for dinner.

Freshly picked candy-like cherry tomatoes, sweetened, ripened, and warmed by the sun.

Memories intensify when the senses are satiated. The intoxicating scent of a home baked loaf of bread or the bright tang of a freshly squeezed glass of lemonade easily allows us to reminisce. It’s easy to reflect on fond memories, particularly when you can so vividly recall the smells, tastes, and sights that have kept these memories alive.

I have been so fortunate to have been raised by family, friends, and loved ones who so deeply care about food. So many of these individuals don’t just see food as a way to feed and nourish our bodies, but rather, a way to show love for those we care for most.

I’ve always said that I realized my senior year of college that I should have gone to culinary school. The idea of being tested on sauce recipes or being taught how to perfect consommé, mirepoix, and confit is enough to make me want to implode with pure culinary elation. I chose to forgo this dream, trading in a classroom setting I fantasized about for long hours and a steady paycheck. However, when I reflect on that time of my life, I wouldn’t change one thing.

Although I didn’t receive formal culinary training from a prestigious French institute, I’d like to say that my tutelage is one of pure love. Of rich homemade Alfredo sauce, sour pickled beets, and garlicky wild game. Of “a pinch of this”, “a squeeze of that”, and “a glug of whatever liquid is in the refrigerator”. Of vintage Tupperware housing flour and sugar, repurposed peanut butter jars containing grains and dried legumes, and baking sheets with the most beautiful patina.

But more than anything, my love and knowledge of food has been developed and handed down to me by some very special people. People who taught me to appreciate the art of making the perfect meatball, preparing enough soup to feed a ravenous family of 4 for weeks, and of knowing when to simply reach for boxed cake mix.

Over the next 12 months, I will be sharing one story each month about one of these people, and the dish (or dishes!) they’ve shared with me over the years that has formed my current and ongoing education. These individuals have shaped my love for food, and my sincere hope is that you find them fun, inspiring, and entertaining.

These are my Kitchen Memoirs.