An unplanned pan-Mediterranean meal is still vivid in my mind. My husband and I had spent a sun-drenched afternoon kayaking with friends on an old strip-mining lake near their home in rural Illinois. For dinner at our friends¿ house that night, I’d brought along a large batch of keftedes as well as some nice French goats’ milk feta to turn into grilled feta-stuffed Greek burgers, not knowing what else would be served. Our friends had prepared a smooth and hearty white bean pate, which they served with crudite and homemade bread toasts. We also mixed up a brilliant tabbouleh made with red quinoa. To jumpstart our evening, I’d shaken up a round of French 75s, the classic gin and champagne cocktail. We dined outdoors under a gazebo. The temperature was perfect; at this point in the evening, everything seemed perfect. We sipped a rioja wine, which turned out to be just right with our meal. The summer light lingered well into the evening, and as we ate, the light took on a golden hue, illuminating the dragonflies’ inexplicable aerial ballet.

Ceviche de concha negra in a restaurant called Sonia’s in Lima, Peru: Black mollusks, found only on the shores of Peru, made for an outrageously exotic appetizer. My husband and I promptly ordered another serving each. I dream of the day when I can taste that dish again.

My uncle, Andrew Lau, made me my most memorable meal. I was living with him and my grandmother in New Jersey while attending the French Culinary Institute in 2000. I didn’t know much about him at the time; he had joined the Army when I was about six. Every now and then, he would make his Chinese curried chicken, a simple but tasty dish. The night before my final exam, Uncle Andrew made the Chinese curried chicken for me. It was so delicious that I had two bowls of it! He asked me why I liked this simple dish, reminding me, “Your mom knows how to make this too.” But it wasn’t just that it tasted so good; it was about getting to know my uncle, and watching him cook in the kitchen while he smoked his cigarette and sipped his whiskey. That was the last time I had Uncle Andrew’s Chinese curried chicken. I graduated and went on to work with some amazing chefs around the world. Eighteen months later, he died of colon cancer. Now I always think of him when I cook, and fondly remember our shared times in the kitchen.

“…One day I showed up for lunch at her house to find a plate of warm waffles next to a bowl of freshly cut strawberries, Ginnie was nowhere to be seen. When I called out, she yelled from the kitchen where she had just finished making a bowl of fresh whipped cream. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time I’ve had homemade whipped cream, but it was the first time I remember realizing how whipped cream is made….” Read the rest on Learning to Live Without a Microwave