I never learnt how too cook until I moved to small village in a remote area of the Swiss Alps. As a proof of how vibrating and exciting place is, I had been told that indeed it had Irish pub. What people forgot to mention was that the pub closed on Saturday evenings, as clearly there was not enough business to keep it going.
Left to my own devices, I turned to cooking to pass the time and forget the miserably long and depressing Winter. What my Mother couldn’t teach me, I had to learn on my own with the help of a few celebrity chefs and bloggers. At least, my culinary catastrophes had no witnesses and I could experiment as much as I could. Not surprisingly, I didn’t put too much weight on.
A few months after, I could invite a couple of friends for tea. And after, a few friends came over for dinner. Three years passed, and I moved to Zurich, where I presently live. By now, I can put up lively dinner parties and stuff my friends with food of all sorts, including desserts. Surprisingly, they clean their dishes and are always willing to return.
But, as my Mother still doesn’t believe I can do an omelette, let alone fry an egg, I decided to do this blog. Actually, my memory isn’t as good as it used be and I am not as organized as I believe I am. This whole blog started as a reminder of what I had already cooked, and its recip. Of course, there is also the minor detail that I can cook and that after all, I belonged to the family. Yet, I keep well-hidden the tweaks to her original recipes and traditional cuisine. Just in case she accuses me of bastardizing the family dishes. Never a good conversation to have, especially with your Mother.
Nowadays, I cook mostly with my heart, my cupboard is full of spices and I own a very rudimentary scale, which I use very sparingly.