I’m Shelley.

I have no audience so I mostly write this blog for myself and for someone who might happen to search for a hint at how to bruise fresh bay leaf. Super not gonna gush about myself or my amazing family, but will spill a bit…a high school social studies teacher, mother/stepmother of two third-year college students and a high school senior. Transplanted to my community from a cosmopolitan neighborhood with great restaurants, so there’s always a little hole in my soul. Amazing, thoughtful, kind partner who supports whomever I want to be and whatever I want to do.

Anniversary Rose, Butchart Gardens, August ’16

Here’s why I write:  to sort out my own thinking. To document a journey that I take in my brain every time I think about food, plan a menu, prepare a meal. I’m documenting the secret conversations between the voices in my head while I listen to Patsy Cline, or Norah Jones, or, well, Cake because it’s in these secret conversations that I realize how much the experience of cooking itself can be an artistic expression that arises from necessity. You do one because you need the other, and well, if you have to cook because you have to eat, then shouldn’t you want to make the cooking part–the one that takes the longest time for every single meal we eat–the most enjoyable?

Open-air concert in Oberaichen with Susanne & Alfred.

And then there’s the therapy side of it. The time cooking gives me to remember moments, process them, repackage them or deconstruct them, try to think about the other person’s point of view for once because unlike what some people around me say I honestly do know now that life is not all about me even though it’s taken me almost 50 years to figure this out. It’s like those sacred moments when you get that one crystal candle holder out of the cabinet and immediately are transported to the giver, the occasion, and who you were at that time in your life. That’s what goes on in my brain when I cook…but about food.


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