How it all started...

My very first food memory involves a yellow stand mixer (which has yet to churn out a final batch of dough) and a tawny red, acrylic resin countertop. 70's and 80's babies will be most familiar with this kind of scene. There I sat, half-clothed on the counter, not a day over 3 years old and completely fascinated by the process of cookie making.

"OK, time to add the flour," said my Mom, who seemed to churn out goodies on a weekly, if not daily basis.  "Now, do it sl..."

Too late. I had dumped in the flour and switched the mixer on to "8". Or was it "10"? Either way, the groovy colored worktop was redecorated, flecks of white powder covering every inch of it.

From then on, I would carefully watch both Mom and Dad as they put together meals. The whole cooking thing was messy, and I loved it.

There would be cuts that required stitching and burns that needed ice. There'd also be lots of questions: "What's wrong with the whipped cream?" I asked Mom on my 3rd Birthday, referring to the bowl of almost butter that my Aunt Debbie produced for my cake. The point is, I was fascinated and wanted to learn more, whenever I could.  That's how it all started.

Me, possibly testing whipped cream.