Daykin - Let me feed you: simple recipes offering the comfort of home

am a firm believer that everyone is born with a certain skill. Born with it, not taught it. An education is a wonderful thing and we should never stop pushing ourselves to learn more, but some skills dont require textbooks and lessons, because we already possess them. From the moment we come screaming into the world, some of us will already understand music; some will have a knack for language; others will be naturals when it comes to painting or sewing or dancing or running. For some, the ability to make people laugh, or spell long and complicated words, will always be effortless. And for othersmyself includedwe will soon discover we are natural-born feeders.

I think my mum recognized this in me pretty early on. When I was 12, my parents took their first big holiday without their four kids in tow, and they were gone for two whole weeks. My older sister was left in charge of keeping an eye on us, but it was to me that my mum turned to hand all the grocery money over to. Im sure the prospect of planning meals, grocery shopping, and feeding three siblings would have scared off most other 12-year-olds. But not me; I was thrilled. I still remember being down at the Food Barn, pushing what, in my memory, seems like the most enormous shopping cart up and down the aisles, grocery list tight in hand. Im not going to lie; there werent a huge number of vegetables consumed in my parents absence, and maybe a few too many cookies and doughnuts, but I managed to keep us all alive for those two weeks.

As I grew, so did my love of feeding others. Ours was the house where all the neighborhood kids tended to congregate (no wonder my mum was exhausted). There was always an extra kid, or two or three, hanging about our house, whichgiven my penchant for after-school baking bonanzasworked out pretty well. Those extra kids and I had what some might call a symbiotic relationship: their desire to eat cookies worked very nicely with my desire to bake them. And while baking was clearly my first love, I was always more than willing to whip up something a little less sweet if thats what the situation called for. I remember staying up late on countless Friday and Saturday nights as a young teenager, patiently waiting for my older brother and his buddies to return home so I could start churning out the grilled cheese sandwiches and hot buttered popcorn for them to eagerly consume. Suddenly the annoying little sister wasnt so annoying after all!

I moved into the first apartment of my own at the age of 19, and Im pretty sure I was more excited about the prospect of throwing dinner parties than I was about my newfound independence. I loved that little apartment and its wee kitchen from the moment I laid eyes on it. Built sometime in the 1950s, it came equipped with a pink fridge and a little pink stove (which allowed you to control the heat of the elements via push buttons offering a wide range of options: low, medium, or high). It was from that very kitchen that I cooked for Paul and myself what, to this day, remains one of our most memorable meals. He swears he will never forget how delicious that roasted leg of lamb was, and Ill never forget how shocked I was that he damn near ate the whole thing! Id like to think that the marriage proposal that soon followed was based entirely on Pauls undying love for me, but I suspect the lamb had more than a little to do with it (see for the recipe).

In 1989 Paul and I were married. Fortunately, Paul is a man who likes to entertain as much as I do, so as young newlyweds we hosted many a get-together for friends and family. The first home we shared was a rentalthe main floor of a big old house not too far from the beach. Many of its original features were still intact, including a wood-burning fireplace, lots of dark wood paneling (which I boldly chose to paint white, and somehow the landlord never noticed), and a large dining room and kitchen. But for everything that was wonderful about the place, there were an equal number of oddities. For instance, the tiny little bathroom you accessed from the dining room was always bitterly cold, no matter the season; there was only one closet in the whole place; and I think the electric stove in the kitchen, given its dimensions, may actually have been meant for a dolls house. None of these quirks seemed to hold me back, though, and I willingly used all my spare time cooking and baking, trying out new recipes, and learning new techniques. This was years before the Food Network was on the scene, so I relied heavily on cookbooks, magazines, and a lot of trial and error to hone my skills.

As much as I loved mastering a new dish, I quickly recognized that my favorite style of cooking and baking was one with little fuss, using basic but quality ingredients. In 1993, when our daughter, India, was born, this approach became even more fitting as there was little time left in a day for anything more complicated. By keeping it simple and keeping it real, I managed to keep my sanity while still maintaining my love for feeding others.