Peasant Hands

When I was trying to come up with a name for this blog, I thought long and hard about my focus. My other blogs tended to be directionless messes, not a bit like me I am sure, but I wanted to rein it in this time. Keep it from going off the rails. My job in heritage has afforded opportunities to learn and try out historic cooking in a historic kitchen. But I don't want to limit myself to olde thyme cookery. Or to one culture. Or to one type of food. So I'm back where I started. A food blog with no focus.

And then I thought about why I'm here in the first place. It's quite simple, actually. I want to feed you. It's how I show my love. It's how I learn and experience culture and share my own. And it most certainly is how I remember the past. And now, it is how I will prepare my son for the future. Here is where he will read about his childhood. And learn who his mama is. And who the other important women in the kitchen were. Times have changed. And so have gender roles. He belongs in the kitchen just as much as I do. And he will learn to cook his culture. Bake his past. And roll out his future on a flour-dusted counter.

Take our hands, and come along on this family journey if you dare. If you've ever had the misfortune of taking my hand, you'll know. They are peasant hands. Just like my mom's. And my grandma's. Dry and chapped. They have worked the earth and toiled by the hearth. Deeply lined and tanned and chapped. Scrubbed and sinewy and smelling distinctly of onion and garlic. They are, in a word, awesome. They are my very best feature. And when I get done with my son, I hope his will look and feel the very same.