What all of these kitchens have in common, however, is this: something is missing. Some I would classify as adventurous home cooks, the kind of people willing to tackle homemade croissants or a complicated Thai curry some consider it a roaring success to get a dinner on the table that the kids will actually eat. Some of my friends don’t cook at all some of them cook dinner every night. Most of these kitchens lay in the vast middle ground between titanium-pot-over-open-fire and fully-equipped dream kitchen. But, more challenging kitchen adventures aside, most of my away-from-home cooking happens in kitchens: the home kitchens of my Mom, Tai’s family, or our friends. I can make a meal under nearly any circumstances: after all, if worst comes to worst, all you really need is fire and a stick. All this is to say, I’m not some kitchen wuss. Grilled chicken and fire-roasted potatoes on top of Mount Bigelow? Check. Veggie frittata on safari in Mapungubwe National Park? Been there, done that. Three in the morning post-soccer-and-bar-crawl pasta? I’m your girl. The upshot being: I’ve cooked in a lot of places, a lot of different kitchens, and a lot of fun times. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it with my last breath.) And it’s just possible that I’m a nice person, who is more than happy to offer up a home-cooked meal in exchange for the hospitality of friends. Invariably, when I visit a friend’s house these days, I get a cheerful, “ Oh, great! You can cook for us!” ( Although just as often, I will admit, I offer first: because, hey, what do you know? I like to cook. And because I write about food a couple of times a week, most of these folks have figured it out: I cook.
Because, like so many of us these days, my friends & family are scattered far and wide, I do a fair bit of traveling to keep in touch with my nearest and dearest. A funny thing happens when you write a food blog: people get the impression that you know how to cook.
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