Me with my Omi (1999)

We gathered what we could and returned to her apartment to bake. Rather than take charge or even guide me, Omi gave me complete freedom in the kitchen. She insisted I try to reenact what Julia did to the best of my ability.

I made a huge mess! When my memory became foggy, I improvised. It was stressful and wildly liberating. Into the oven went a comical mound of an eight year old's first attempt to make something on her own. When it came time to try what I'd made, I was repulsed. Yet Omi dove right in and enjoyed a big plateful.

"Omi, how can you possibly eat this? It's gross!"

"Oh no, Leah," she said in her comforting accent, "it's delicious."

Intro to Julia Child's Tart aux Pommes

Even as a child I knew she wasn't telling the truth. She ate this dessert to support my brave effort to try something new. It was affirmation. She grew up in Germany during WWII and her family was very poor. She told me stories of how they slept in trains and on top of haystacks in barns and lived off stale buns with an occasional slice of lunchmeat. She grew up never letting food go to waste — including this pie.

My Omi was a vital advocate for my creativity during childhood. She submitted my drawings to Highlights Magazine and took me to the Art Institute of Chicago. She loved the Picassos and reminded me that one day my work could be on those walls, too. I received nothing but encouragement and unconditional love from her.

"Chef of the future!" she would recite as she lifted my shirt over my head, helping me to undress for a bath, letting the fabric drape like a poofy chef hat. It made us both laugh and was a nod to how much I treasured food, food of all kinds. I was and continue to be endlessly fascinated by my and other cultures' flavors, culinary traditions, and our ability to use food to form connections, unify, and create memories. It defines us. It makes us who we are. I am grateful for who I have become under her influence and the light she shed on what was, at times, a dark childhood.

I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago with my single mother. We lived in a small apartment where we shared a bed and were inseparable. Raising a child alone as a hairdresser was not easy. She struggled immensely and was a master at hiding it from me. Our home was well decorated, cozy, and sparkling clean with seasonal Yankee candles burning all day long. She dressed me in the cutest Oshkosh B'gosh outfits she could find on sale at T.J. Maxx, made me her Nona’s stuffed artichokes on my birthday, and treated me to Olive Garden when I got straight A's. My mom gave me everything she could, and I will forever cherish her strength, sacrifice, and dedication to doing her best under such difficult circumstances.

She eventually remarried and had two more children. Her new husband, my now stepfather, was our escape from poverty and suffering, but it came at a cost. He was an alcoholic and this disease took the best of him, clouding what could have been a positive father figure in my life. He rarely came home for dinner and caused us all to live in fear when he did. Putting a roof over our heads permitted him to do as he pleased.

Years of abuse continued. As the oldest, I constantly felt the need to protect and defend. The idea of a family dinner continued to fade. It was not a priority and understandably so. When I would go to my best friend's house for their pasta suppers, everyone would sit together and talk about their day over a shared meal. It felt special. It felt normal and like something I deserved. I wanted this in my home so badly and suddenly realized I could.

I started making pizza with my little sister every Friday night. It was our new tradition and made me feel empowered. I thought maybe dad would come home if we were making dinner? Sometimes he did. But it didn't matter anymore. What mattered was looking forward to opening that blue box of premixed Jiffy crust after school and trying out new ingredients and methods each week. Spending quality time with my sister and laughing at mom when she said we were making a mess. At this moment, we could put the pain aside and focus on our love for each other.

My desire to use food to heal from trauma and bring people together continued to grow. I hosted my first dinner party in high school and invited friends to come over for a holiday meal. I saved up the money I made working at various chain establishments in the area to put on an elaborate feast of homemade pasta, turkey, and sugar cookies. We cooked for hours, mom chiming in here and there to ensure the house didn't burn down and that the meat was done before serving. The evening was full of joy and warmth – a positive memory I helped create through food and community.

I became addicted to this feeling. Of togetherness. Of family. I wanted more of it and never stopped cooking.