Is There A Food Gene?
My mother is not a food person. More than once she's told me she resents the effort that goes into preparing meals. “All that work, gone so soon.” She once watched me put sliced avocado on a rice cake and top it with slivers of feta cheese. “It would never occur to me to put more than one thing on a cracker,” she said with a bit of awed surprise. “I just would never think of it.” Recently she confessed that she eats too much cheese, but “at least it doesn’t have to be cooked.” My mother is amazing and accomplished in many ways, but food is just not her thing.
Food is my thing—or at least one of them. When I was eight I began adding lemon juice and fresh mint to the jugs of apple juice in our fridge (really perked up the flavor). I started pouring over cookbooks and planning menus at the age of ten, two years later I was doing most of the cooking for the family. I asked for a Cuisinart for my fourteenth birthday but had to wait two years before anyone took my request seriously enough to get me one. I bought my first set of dishes at fourteen and catered my first grownup party—an Easter luncheon for thirty, straight out of the pages of Martha Stewart’s Entertaining—two years later.
My brother has the food thing too. He’s worked in restaurants, considered culinary school, and now does all the cooking for his wife and two children. When still in his early twenties, he started saving all the tips from his lunch shifts at the restaurant to buy a set of good knives, and when he and his wife went to register for wedding gifts he already owned all the items the department store recommended on their kitchen registry list. The souvenir gift from their wedding was a small cookbook of favorite recipes.
My mother sometimes wonders how she got two foodies as children.
Like my mother, my sister-in-law is not a food person. Shortly after she and my brother began dating, he called to tell me that he had been at her house and all she had in her fridge was a bottle of champagne, a bottle of salad dressing, and a can of honey-roasted peanuts—nothing else. I could tell he was already crazy about her because he thought this was adorable; I thought it was frightening. Last Thanksgiving she suggested that we buy the entire meal from the Whole Foods deli section, so no one would have to cook. In her defense, she does cook one thing—a black bean chili recipe that requires the opening of many cans and jars, but which is absolutely delicious.
When I came up here to Seattle, earlier this year, I began to bring over dinner for my brother and sister-in-law once a week or so. They’re busy and tried these days, caring for two small children, and it was a small thing I could do to help out. I like to cook, and I knew my brother would appreciate not having to worry about what to make for dinner after a long day at work and the evening crunch of trying to get the two girls fed, bathed, and in bed on time. Meals for the grownups are always last priority.
A few weeks into this my sister-in-law and I were talking. She thanked me for the meal I had brought the night before, but there was something she didn’t quite understand.
“So, you really enjoy cooking?” she asked me, a little incredulous.
“Yes, I find it relaxing.”
“Really?” I could see by the expression on her face that she wasn’t getting it.
“Yeah, it’s…” I was having a hard time finding the right way to explain it so that she would understand. Then I had a breakthrough. “It’s the same way you feel about gardening.”
“Oh, wow.” I could tell that made sense to her, comprehension flooded her face, but still she had a hard time believing. “Really?” she said again.
“Yes, really.”
My brother and I sometimes joke that we learned how to cook in self-defense, because neither of us enjoyed eating the foods my mother prepared. This may explain why we cooked, but it doesn’t explain how we developed a love for cooking, for flavors and techniques.
In the same way that my sister-in-law spends her free time gardening—and enjoys the very act of it and not just the result—I too enjoy the simple activity of cooking. At the end of the day I am happy to push back my computer and go into the kitchen to start chopping an onion. What some people see as drudgery, or at least a necessary evil, I find pleasureable. How did that happen?
If the debate on nature vs. nurture were to apply here, it’s clear to me that I don’t come by my love of cooking from environment (nurture). Our kitchen was not filled with baking aromas; no one took me in hand and showed me the way; and I never had much example of cooking beyond the basics. Any skills I have come from the books that I sought out—or TV cooking shows, and now blogs—but I had the urge, the interest already in me. Where did it come from?
Sometimes I wonder if this food thing is hereditary, if there is a gene that decides whether you are a food person or not. I wasn’t raised with my father’s family, so I don't know if I had a love of food on the paternal side. Perhaps it’s just random—like the preference for a certain color or the ability to knot a cherry stem with your tongue.
One thing is clear—wherever it comes from I know I don’t get it from my mom’s side of the family. I don't think any of them are good cooks. The only dish I remember my late grandfather serving me was chow mein from a can—so awful tasting that my brother and I smothered it in mustard just to be able to choke it down. We were only young kids at the time, but already we knew dinner should taste better than that.
Where do you get your love of food?
, my pulse quickened. It was red and sexy, a sizable 4.25 quarts, and nicely curved down towards the bottom. It was lust at first sight. Practicality be dammed, I 
What you are looking for is a short grain Japanese-syle white rice. Other brands I have seen recommended are: Kokuho Rose, Tamaki Gold, Tamanishiki, Nozomi and Yume. You want to make about one cup of raw rice per person when planning your amounts, this provides about a cup and a half of cooked rice. If you have big eaters, plan to make more.
or hangiri. The shape allows the rice to cool quickly and the unvarnished wood absorbs some of the moisture and keeps it from getting gummy. You can improvise with a wooden cutting board, which works great and is easy to put in the middle of the table where everyone can have access. Whatever you use, try to mix your rice on unfinished wood.
, which is correctly pronounced "nor-di" and not "nor-ee" (a pet peeve of mine), is the sheet-style seaweed used to wrap around maki sushi. It is sometimes called yaki nori (grilled nori). These are sold in 
, which is made out of bamboo. You might want to dip the paddle into either water or some extra sushi vinegar mixture, so the rice won’t stick to it as much. You can also use a wooden cooking spoon or even your hands (again, moisten them to avoid sticking).
at the store. No shame in this, most Japanese people I know do the same. Some packages of soba even include small packets of soba tsuyu (this is generally a concentrate and will need to be diluted with water—the directions may be written in Japanese, but look for any measurements or numbers you can find on the packet to find out how much water to add).
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