My heart’s belonged to the kitchen for as long as I can remember. My mom, who’s up there with Ina Garten in my mind, had us stirring and egg-cracking before we could even read the recipes. I can guarantee we were more of a hindrance than a help, but that’s not what mattered. She assured us that it wasn’t really cooking unless you made a mess. I’ve grown moderately more competent since then, but the draw of the kitchen, with its warm hearth smells and sounds, hasn’t changed at all.
For me, cooking is like yoga. A yoga that has all of the same calming benefits but without the awkward body noises or the pesky physical fitness angle.
Also, I love bad puns. Clearly.