Hi. I'm Liat Naomi singing. If the twins are growing up, one tula and an infant. A solid woman, who has lived in New York for a long time. A lot of time.
I have no formal kitchen training, no certificate on the wall or years of study at Estella. Nor big names of famous schools or an extensive legacy of celebrated chefs by my side. In fact, I can confidently testify that apart from forced watching in the hands of my aunts' commissions in my childhood kitchen, nothing will say to my credit. is nothing. I have nothing but love.
I did not grow up in the kitchen on the contrary. I was banished from it for many years and like all the things I was not a member of, I cultivated a quiet contempt for the club. For many years, we shared the same roof as two grumpy partners in a Tel Aviv apartment, inevitably sharing an electricity bill and property tax.
I discovered my love for the kitchen several years ago. I was stuck in it.
Ethan comes and the children with him, and food becomes a necessity but not one that carries with it a pleasure or a promise of a clean sink and with every child the necessity like a pile of dishes grows bigger and the pleasure with it is small.
It was between weaning from the little one's diapers and the petty matter of having to feed the household one way or another. I had to invent an interest. And with that came the passion and with it came her big sister, love.
It did not happen in a day, not even in a month. I did not take a course that changed my life or tasted a dish that blew me away. I guess I realized that if I'm already in the kitchen turning on ovens, then why not do something that interests me. It's hard for me to put the pulse on a finger but suddenly a cake in the oven was not a firing squad and stuffed in a pot there was no ambush. The smell of yeast in the air widened my nostrils and a quiet bubble of pots made my stomach sun.
What I am trying to say and without much success, that there are late loves and no age for love and even a fifth decade can contain great gifts. After many hours, steaming pots, dirty dishes, puffed dough and cookies in the oven here we gather in the kitchen to talk love.
I hold cooking workshops in my kitchen, mainly of Israeli chefs. Here in New York's Long Island we are thirsty for every drop of Israeliness with a plate or dough or cake we dreamed of in Hebrew. I meet amazing people and excellent chefs, with some of whom I have made connections to life. On the way they see some New York and we cook house food on a plate with an American accent.
Food, apart from its raw materials or meticulous preparation instructions, coveted styling and intoxicating aroma, food is love. The act of feeding is a basic act. From my pot to your plate. From your plate to my mouth. From my hands to your mouth. Food is an act of love. Whether it's a meticulous dish at an elite restaurant or the hands of an elderly peddler in the Old City. Food is an act of love.
I'm not loyal to one kitchen or another. So many kitchens excite me and I love to try and experiment. Everything is good for me. Vegetarian or non-vegetarian, Asian or Indian. Italian or French. There is no kitchen that does not face me in one way or another. They were all my children. But no plate will compare to the one that touches the house. A plate bearing a memory of Friday with a fever of preparations for Shabbat.
On the counter there are six bubbling and steaming pots and mom goes up to rest because she's on her feet at four in the morning and all the windows are open and the street bustle is flowing quietly and Dad, whose back is turned to me sends me to take pita Saluf and fenugreek to neighbor Shimon because he's been waiting since morning.
This is my success. Good that you came and welcome to me.