Genevieve

For many years I lived in Philadelphia, one of the best restaurant cities in the country. My husband--Gus--and I would stretch our budget to the limit, relishing the city's countless culinary delights.

Brunches, lunches, and dinners at casual local favorites or trendy Center City eateries were my passion, my vice, my highlight of the week. These were the settings for many cherished memories of time happily spent with family and friends.

Alas, the girl with only a bottle of ketchup and a moldy loaf of bread in the fridge harbored a secret fantasy...I dreamed of becoming a gracefully capable cook. The fantasy was fueled by a shamefully budget-busting cookware and gadget purchasing habit. I'd run home after a fix, unveil my shiny new loot, and set about finding for it the perfect new home among the ranks of neglected kitchen equipment, crying out to be utilized to its full potential. Okay, crying out to be used. Ever. The cries were muffled as I closed the kitchen cabinet door and dialed out for a Marathon burger...

My emotions were a mix of guilt, reverence, and awe as I watched my Italian mother-in-law whip up mouth-watering meals using her simple, trusty, time-and-love-worn Cuisinart pots and her grandmother's battered antique pasta strainer with which she couldn't bare to part.

In her steamy kitchen, I would transcribe precious family recipes on gravy-stained loose-leaf sheets as she kneaded, roasted, and sauteed. Inspired, I'd return home and carefully file these gems among my ever-expanding set of hand-assembled, color-coded, indexed, subheaded, cross-referenced(!!!), and absurdly enormous recipe binders. And my inspiration would drift off into the ether as I ran to grab a shower before another dinner out...I loved the *idea* of cooking.

Times have changed.

Gus and I said our goodbyes to Philly and headed south for a job-related move. And we love the experience. The warmth of both the weather and the people. The slow-down-and-enjoy-the-ride attitude. But we're homesick for the food of our beloved city.

I no longer have to stash half of my kitchenware in a rented storage locker. Nope, it's all in my shiny new kitchen. And I've begun using it. A lot. Much to my surprise, I've cooked up some pretty darm edible things.

And I'm determined to keep going. Armed with a prawn deveiner, a sponge cake slicer, and a battery-operated milk frother, how can I possibly fail?