A few months ago, we had some friends visiting and I suddenly fell into a baking mood. This is not my typical state of mind. I do cook, and some people may say that I cook well but baking is another story. However, friends were coming over and my mother always said that you just can’t have tea without cookies.
I love pastries! Savory, sweet, spicy...doesn’t really matter, as long as they’re fresh and hot. When my son was a baby, I used to take him in his stroller for a walk in our neighborhood. We always had our must stop spots.
"Why don’t you make mafrum?” asked my better half with this voice that she keeps for the things she really, really wants. “Mafrum? Now? In the middle of the summer?” I tried to evade her question. “First of all, you promised a long time ago that you’ll make it for me, and never did".
"What do you want to eat?” I asked my young son. “Can you make that thing that we always eat at grandma Rachelle’s?” “What dish?” I answered “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” “That meat we always eat with mom and grandma in the square”.
"We are going to visit grandma,” said dad. We were thrilled, my brother and I loved these visits. Grandma lived on the other side of town. Back then, it took a ride on two different buses and quite a long walk to get there.
"So you really know how to cook?” asked Jezebel (an invented name) when we sat in the early hours of the morning in a small restaurant in Paris after a long, alcohol-filled night. I vaguely remembered that we spoke about food and cooking in the evening. I guess the alcohol in my blood made me feel at least like Gordon Ramsay because I answered “yes, I’m a great cook” trying to impress Jezebel.
