How It All Began

I have smelled like garlic, onions and beef for 22 years.

As a teenager, I would try to escape the aromas of my mother’s cooking to save myself the embarrassment that I would experience at my locker that day in school. Questions like, “Who smells like a bucket of onions?” followed me almost as closely as the savory scents of my mother’s kitchen did. Although dishes like moussaka and keftedes smell amazing on the stovetop or in the oven, having the meaty stench stick to my clothes was something entirely different. Besides, no one wants to bring the girl who smells like a leg of lamb to the prom.

Despite the fact that I grew up smelling like a casserole, I have come to appreciate my mother’s zealous attitude towards food. My mother is half-Greek and half-Italian, and nearly everything in her kitchen is made from scratch. From freshly baked breads to a stockpile of homemade preserves, her cupboards and countertops are piled high with Nadia originals. And she uses real butter. “To me, if it has low and fat together, I’m against it,” Nadia Logar said. In our low-card-low-calorie-workout-obsessed culture, I find that extremely refreshing. And delicious.

So when I began this blog, I realized that I would be a fool not to consult my mother for some cooking tips. Not only is she the first person I think of calling when I have a problem in the kitchen, but she gave me my love for cooking. My life has been filled with good meals and good company because of her. When a family member or friend is getting married, she bakes months in advance, ensuring that the cookie table at the reception will overflow with wonderfully decorated pastries to celebrate with. And when that same family member or friend loses a loved one, she sends over a pot of sauce, fresh cibatta and a box of noodles to make their difficult time just a little easier. Her heart is as light and as warm as the homemade bread she pulls from her oven. At 5-foot-7 and only 105 pounds, sometimes I wonder how that big heart fits inside such a tiny little body.

So maybe I didn’t grow up smelling like the rest of the girls in my class. Big deal. I’m not afraid to use real butter, even if I do smell like a bucket of onions.