Inever learned how to cook growing up. Throughout my teenage years, I was sometimes recruited as an assistant for meal preparation but was never prompted to be a chef. I cut vegetables for holiday dinners, stirred soups on the stove, licked spoons, and not much else. Relatively often, I handily opened a bottle of wine while others cooked.
At college, the cafeteria food was consistently awful, so I began making basic dishes for myself: baguettes with prosciutto and burrata, bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, and pasta in oil with parmesan. Still, I wasn’t cooking. Yes, I was doing things in my kitchen, but I was hardly manipulating the ingredients. I was just assembling them.






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