My mom taught me to cook by expecting me to learn from watching. She was the original "easier if I just do it myself," too impatient for the mess of actually letting me try. She expected me to one day simply know how to cook, the same way she expected me to one day simply have a partner, without the mess of actually dating. It pains me to admit she was right on both counts.
New York was the right place for all of it.
A tiny kitchen turns out to be enough, more than enough, when you know what you're doing and why you're doing it. I learned to cook the way most people do: by watching, by eating, by failing and by going back to the stove anyway. What I didn't expect was how much there was to understand once I started paying attention. Not just technique, but the stories behind the food. Where a dish comes from, why it's made a certain way, what it means to the people who made it before me.
That curiosity is what built this site.
Dining out fed it too. New York will do that. Exploring this city, from the hole in the wall with three tables to the restaurant that requires a reservation six weeks out, opened my eyes to different cultures and cuisines that I would otherwise have never known. It inspired me with flavors and techniques that I brought straight back to my tiny kitchen. Because no matter how fabulous the place, I always come back to cooking at home.
Big Bites Tiny Kitchen was inevitable. The thousands of photos, the family recipes, the Cooking School sidebars, the dining out pieces, they were always waiting to become something. This is that something. A place at the table for the food, the story and anyone who wants to pull up a chair.
