Eating is something I’ve always been good at. Le Sigh. Cooking, on the other hand, didn’t come quite as naturally. Think about it like this: if baking is a “science” and cooking is an “art”-implied is a need for precision in the former versus greater room for creativity in the latter-my “artwork” was definitely of the abstract persuasion. And as such, like the works of many modern artists, not appreciated in its early stages.

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Long before my attempt at solo kitchen artistry, I had a taste of the experience as a ninja’s apprentice (For the record, I was not under supervision of real ninjas, but rather ninja chefs, specifically my grandmother, Yiayia Theano). I was four when this apprenticeship started. Barely tall enough to see over the kitchen table, I acted as her mini sous chef. Although I failed miserably, I am grateful for that opportunity. It should be known, that most women in my family are ninja chefs.  Anyway, looking back, I see that she didn’t so much as teach me but rather kept me busy. Very smart woman. She’d give me a piece of extra dough to play with (play dough > play-doh). And although I followed her motions, my lumpy disfigured koulourakia or tiropitakia could always be distinguished from hers, craftily shaped and uniformly sized.

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Let’s go back to eating for a second, seeing as the two-eating and cooking-are so closely linked in my life. First off, I don’t understand how/when/where “emotional eating,” got such a bad rap (rep? rap? ah, no matter. you get it). I mean, people, children included, don’t just eat when they are sad. This is a widely spread misnomer. The people who spread it are probably just bitter because they have never experienced a proper holiday food coma. I say these things because I remember being quite happy as a child, but also equally as round. Old people would always come up to me and pinch my cheeks and tell me how amazing I was. Since I hadn’t accomplished anything at that point, I am inclined to believe they thought I was amazing because my rampant fluffiness made me a prime pinching subject, which pleased them. I would eat; they would pinch.the perfect symbiosis.

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Nowadays, I tend not to hang out with people who “eat to live,” they’re generally not my type. And they don’t add salt to anything. Kitchen blasphemy. My father is unfortunately one of these people-I mean the “eat to live” kind. But to be fair, he’s actually gotten better with age. I’m not sure if it’s scientifically possible, but his taste buds were only activated after his 50^th birthday. He’s actually become a pretty good cook, must take after his kids.
Speaking of my father (hi Baba!) I must thank him here, for efforts in force feeding me salad products the first 12 years of my life. It was not until one summer when I was eating lunch with my family in Omalo, my father’s village, however that I saw salad as my friend. This was as a result of my three year old niece reaching to the salad bowl and picking out with her tiny little baby fingers a raw onion and eating it, a huge smile plastered across her face. This was happiness I could only imagine when thinking of cookies and melted cheese, particularly in the form of saganaki. It might have also been because I thought the purpose of salad bowl was to hold oil and vinegar in which my bread was to be dunked. In this moment, Yiayia explained that I would grow up to be ugly if I didn’t eat onions like my niece. I guess hadn’t yet learned the importance of citing sources, so I took her word as truth. And since then onions have a special place in my heart as well as their own section on my personal food pyramid, shared only by garlic.

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I don’t quite remember when I made my first meal, but trust me, it’s probably better off forgotten. But through it all my family has served as the most gracious of critics. Considering all the times I almost killed them (garlic-ridden tzatziki, undercooked meat products and vodka sauce that was more vodka than sauce, to name a few). I’m happy to tell you they weren’t so badly traumatized to lose faith completely. Come to think of it, a comparison could be drawn between each member of my family to the former American Idol judges. Note that these are not similarities in physique (yikes, imagine?) but rather in their style of judgment. Mama Bear most closely resembles Randy with her constructive criticism. Papa Bear would be Paula, always has something positive to say (probably because he is a noob) serving as my culinary confidence boost. And Brother Bear would definitely be Simon: my toughest but best critic but the one I strive the most to impress (a complex which stems from the time he refused to play Pretty Pretty Princess or watch Barney with me). The three of them make for a well-rounded, balanced panel. In this way my family has played a great role in my endeavor to reach Iron Chef-dom.

Ah, Iron Chef. I wonder if anyone else loves this show as much as I do? With that ridiculous Japanese ninjamanactor who yells out ALLEEEEEZ CUISINE!!! at the start of each battle, air-judo-chopping the secret ingredient. But I’m too obsessed with the show (Food Network in general) to question it.
Although I have yet to become an Iron Chef, I am confident in saying I’ve made great progress since my humble beginnings as a. er. Tin Foil Chef? On my culinary journey I have driven over many a speed bump and busted a couple tires along the way, but there’s a while yet until I get to yiayia status and I think I’m making pretty good time.

Some of my latest (meatless) concoctions!
Filakia,
Steph