I can make the best veal escalope in the world, or at least that’s what my friend Maya says. She has claimed that she would like to have my escalope as her last meal, despite the fact that I have made that dish for her countless times, as I try to perfect my recipe. To be quite honest, I am obsessed (no, really, obsessed) with food, and on bad days I dream of running off to Italy and starting my own restaurant.
My story with food started as a little girl. I was born into a family where love is expressed in the amount of food that we make for someone. The more we like you, the more food on the table. Skipping a dish is a clear insult in our dining room.
My mother, who is a computer engineer, is the best cook in the world, and legend has it she can feed an anorexic. My grandfather, though a lower middle class worker, disliked having to eat alone and kept the front door of our village house open, with food constantly being prepared in the kitchen. My grandmother and great aunt always let me pitch in when they were preparing a meal, and so it was that I learnt how to make wara’ 3enab (stuffed vine leaves) and Chich barak (meat stuffed pastry) before I could make pasta.
I grew up with a simple palate, a preference for hearty home made food, and a house that had three fridges for three occupants. So you might say I was bullied into loving food.
If there’s anything I’m notoriously known for it is my appetite. This blog was named after my constant cravings.