Even though I grew up in a household where the family meal was always the main focal point of holidays and family gatherings, where eating out was once-a-year kind of occasion, my own passion in the kitchen, particularly for baking, didn’t really take hold until high school. Not really sure the exact moment it all clicked, but I do remember coming across what was then a nascent blogging world, being subsequently introduced to the likes of smittenkitchen, David Leibovitz, and Joy the Baker. All of a sudden, obsessing over my RSS feed—making sure I was up to date on all my 20+ blogs— was my new and favorite source of procrastination. This was also around the same time that my usual visits to the library also began to change in motive. I would go and emerge hours later carrying literal stacks of books—no longer of novels, but of cookbooks and the occasional food memoir.
Read MoreWhen I call my mother to ask her for a family recipe, I always make sure to have a pen, paper, and at least a hour set aside for the conversation. You see, more times than not, there is no recipe—not one written down that is. These recipes, born in the Soviet Union and passed down from woman to woman over the years, have simply been put to memory and rely more on basic know-how and techniques than on rigid instructions.
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