Someone to Cook For. Or: Excuse Me While I Gush.

There are those of us who love to cook. We like nothing better than starting with ingredients and making something wonderful by adding salt, oil, water, sugar, and bay leaves. For me its always been something that connects me to my Mother, who started off by making Crepes with me every Saturday morning. My Godmother, who I made cookies and chutney with from a young age; the smell of Éclair’s Bakery on West 72nd street on Fridays when we picked up our Challah, or the first time I ate Sushi with my Father, and his constant "you don't have to like it, but you HAVE to try it."

In Culinary school I had a very strong emotional and visceral connection to bread making. Elbow deep in sticky earthy smelling raw dough, kneading in a cloud of white flour, forming the loaf and baking -- it was an instant connection to every woman from the beginning of time who had done the exact same thing I was doing, and it was powerful.

The only real cooking I did while I was still living with my parents was holiday and party cooking. A 20-pound Turkey, fried Chicken for 4th of July, Lamb for Passover. It wasn't until I left home that I started really cooking. I tried different cuts of meats, new techniques, and different flavors. It was my own private culinary school crash course. There was something else I discovered when I was away from home; I didn't like cooking for myself. I didn't see the need to put much effort into food if it were just for me. Yes, it’s a beautiful piece of seared tuna, but it’s just for me, it felt somehow like a waste.

When friends came over for dinner I went all out. Not that it was Lobster and Caviar every time, but it was a dish I put love and time into, and they could taste that. I started dating a man in the summer of '06 -- someone who I felt from our very first date was different. It felt "right." It still does. I made him a Grilled Cheese sandwich early in the relationship. Nothing fancy, just some English Cheddar and the only bread I had -- some marbled rye. He ate about 4 of them. His yumm's and mmmm's made me beam.

He had never had a woman he was seeing cook for him before, I was perfectly happy to remedy that. Now as I said, I never loved cooking for myself, but give me one other person and I'm in heaven. Give me someone I care for, and I relish every drop of sweat, every cut finger, and every burn. I can't say that the way to his heart was through his stomach (although I'm sure it didn't hurt), but I can say that the every time I cook for him, it makes me smile. Seeing him satisfied, or introduced to something new that I've made, something he now loves, is one of the greatest joys of my life at this time.

Food means so much to humans. It means family, holidays, traditions, joy, comfort and a myriad of other memories and emotions. For me, it’s a promise to take care of him, and a promise that he will always have a home to come back to. Some of you might look cynically upon this -- it's not the 1950's anymore -- Women are liberated, and a home cooked meal for your man is no longer a requirement. How backward of you! I am a hard-core liberal, have marched on Washington for Women's Rights, am continually politically active, and have read my Gloria Steinem thank you very much. I'll never be barefoot and pregnant, I'll never put makeup on just because he'll be home in 15 minutes, and I don't have a problem with leaving him alone so I can go out with my friends. However, like a Comic gets a high from the audience's laughter, and an athlete prides herself on her finishing time, I get my greatest boosts when he invites people over for a home-cooked meal, or when he says "it's really good Baby."

Cooking is about connections -- connections to the past, to your ingredients, even to your body. So, it doesn't matter if you’re boiling hot dogs, or taking the whole day to make a roast, the underlying message is always the same. Make something for someone; it doesn't matter if it’s burnt or god-awful, all that matters is that you made the effort. I'm lucky enough to have found someone who appreciates me, and doesn't take me for granted. And for that, he gets quiche, roasts, chocolate mousse, and a place to call home.