Is this my signature dish? Macaroni and Cheese.

My sister makes the most amazing, scrumptious cookies.  In fact, she’s the queen of baking in our family.  People clamor for her cookies.  Her signature cookies are soft and chockfull of sweet, melty chunks of chocolate and butterscotch chips.  She started with a recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag and she lovingly nurtured its evolution to a recipe that she keeps only in her head.  For our family, and others who have been lucky enough to taste these magical gems, these cookies are like crack.  When the cookies come out, we turn into conniving, scheming liars.  We hoard the cookies for ourselves, stashing them in the coffee can that’s never used or behind the jumbo pack of soap from Costco.  When they have disappeared, we solemnly swear, “But, I only had one.”  In this way, my sister is revered and respected for her gift.

My aunt makes an amazing stuffing with ribbons of salty prosciutto and provolone cheese.  My other sister produces cheesey potatoes that are to-die-for.  My grandma is infamous for deviled eggs.  My mom’s the queen of quiche.  Each holiday, these women present their offerings of  delectable dishes that have become synonymous with family gatherings.

Since becoming of age (read I got my first job and could contribute to holiday meals), I was always given such tasks as picking up a bag of rolls, bringing pre-made deserts, or other processed items.  This year, I put my foot down.  I would no longer allow myself to be considered good for running errands.  I would contribute my own masterpiece with the hopes that I would have my own signature dish.

I contacted my sister, this year’s Thanksgiving hostess, and informed her that I would be making something for the holiday.  ”Please,”  I begged, “don’t give me some trivial errand of bringing rolls.”  Her response: “How about some canned cranberry sauce?”  Once we got past the compulsory expression of Jessen-sarcasm, we agreed that I would contribute some sort of pasta side dish.  Hey, what’s an American Thanksgiving without a carb-laden table?

I settled on macaroni and cheese and I enlisted the boyfriend (and classmate from a 6-week community center French cooking course) for help.  Our flighty teacher praised him for his béchamel sauce – so certainly he would be useful.  I then unleashed the academic within and began researching.  Ultimately, I ended up at my go-to website for all things culinary and took tips and cues from Bobby Flay and Alton Brown.

Now armed with a recipe, I was ready to shop.  The boyfriend and I quickly discovered that the best part of making mac and cheese was the sampling of multiple cheeses at Whole Foods – a necessary step to settling on the the right combination: danish and italian fontinas, asiago, white cheddar, and parmigiano reggiano.  We also purchased thickly sliced bacon, fresh flat leaf parsley and thyme, and some chili powder (for a little kick).

Back at the house, we got to work and he graciously agreed to be my sous chef.  While he was diligently shredding blocks of cheese into piles of heaven, I was browning bacon and warming milk.  We spent the next hour side-by-side, cooking and cleaning.  There were a few moments of anxiety, first when the quantity of produced sauce seemed to overwhelm the noodles and again when the panko bread crumbs wouldn’t crisp they way I wanted them to.

We ended up with two large pans of ooey-gooey macaroni and cheese and transported them safely to my sister’s for Thanksgiving dinner.  I remember receiving compliments, though I can’t remember any of them exactly.  In looking back, what I recall was the closeness I felt with my fellow cook.  If I close my eyes, it’s not the macaroni and cheese that springs to mind.  Instead, I’m transported back to the kitchen.  I can feel the warmth from the stove rising to my cheeks, my hands busy at work chopping fresh herbs, and Darrin (the boyfriend) gently touching my back and offering the taste of a fresh slice of asiago.  I can see the smile on his face and I know that the joy between us was an ingredient we never counted on adding, but found was all too necessary.

Ultimately, I’m not sure I landed a signature dish.  I know that I’m many attempts away from reaching the same level of fame that my sister’s cookies have enjoyed for some years now.  However, I believe that if attempts number 2, 3, 4, 5, and so on are anything like the first, getting to the place where I have the recipe in my head and fans clamoring for it at the door, it will be worth the wait.

Breakfast of champions: grande Awake tea and a slice of banana walnut bread from Starbucks.

As of late, my love for cooking has taken a back seat to, well, life.  I’ve been told that if something really matters to me, I’ll make the time for it.  What then, does my recent lack of cooking say about my burgeoning love for the activity?  I’ve got a billion excuses: work is intense; I still don’t have my own stove; my boyfriend’s recent move has left us sans refrigerator for three weeks; I’m tired – too tired to grocery shop and cook; and I’m just too busy.

Despite all of the incriminating evidence, I really do want to cook.  It’s cathartic and to be quite honest I’m rather sick of eating out.  In place of being in the kitchen, I’ve been living the life of a couch-cook and making do with endless hours of Top Chef: Las Vegas (in case you’re wondering, I’m officially rooting for Kevin), The Next Iron Chef (Go, Chef Frietag!), and Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations (my newest foodie crush).  But, no matter how much time I spend living vicariously through others, I’m left unsatisfied.

I need to get my hands dirty.  I need to chop, and simmer, and smell, and taste.  So, I’m looking for inspiration.  I’ve been scouring websites and cookbooks, collecting interesting recipes, and looking for the one that is going to motivate me off of the couch and in front of the stove.  I think I may have found inspiration in the most unexpected of places – Starbucks.  This morning, when ordering my favorite hot tea (Awake) and a slice of the Banana Walnut Bread, my eyes wondered around the counter bouncing between CD’s for sale and smartly wrapped chocolates.  Eventually, I narrowed in on a stack of cards that seemed to be haphazardly thrown next to the tip jar.  I picked one up to discover that it was the recipe for the exact sweet treat I was purchasing.

But, banana bread seems so unassuming and benign.  Certainly, this can’t be the thing to reignite my passion for cooking.  I mean, it was only a few years ago that I hated banana bread.  In all fairness to banana bread, I’d never actually tried it.  I simply avoided it on a general belief that bread is not supposed to be sweet.  This idea developed from a long history of being a picky child and struggling with the idea of mixing sweet and savory.  I could not comprehend fruit in my salad and could not accept cake in my cheese (or cheese in my cake for that matter).  And the one I really could not get around was sweetened bread.  In fact, I detested the idea.  On more than one occasion I’ve been threatened at having my Azorean-Portuguese heritage revoked because I disliked Portuguese sweet-bread so vehemently.

Thus was banana bread equally judged.  Eventually, I was persuaded to try a slice  when a friend went out of his way to bake a loaf for a gathering.  I didn’t want to be rude.  And to my surprise, and perhaps my chagrin, I actually liked it.  Of course, I do contend that banana bread isn’t so much like bread as it is like cake, which is supposed to be sweet.  Regardless, I fell in love.  The smell alone is delicious and sweet.  Chunks of soft banana and crunchy walnuts are too good to resist.  Another friend recently deepened my love for this comfort food by adding slivers of rich dark-chocolate to her recipe.

I’ve checked the weather.  Next week we’ll (Fresno) actually drop into the 60′s – perfect weather for staying in-doors and baking.  I’m armed with a new recipe and, hopefully, some new inspiration – everything I need to return to the comforting arms of my loving master: la cuisine.  Until then, as this will be my first attempt at baking bread of any sorts, tips, suggestions, and words of encouragement are more than welcome.

Crunchy and sweet red bell peppers - the star of my signature tossed salad, a recipe I developed while at graduate school.

My own stove does not exist.  Or at least not outside the realm of my imagination.  The stove I have dreamt up is nothing spectacular.  Just your run-of-the-mill stove – a source for heat.  Though, my one requirement, we’re talking deal-breaker here, is that my dream stove is powered by gas.  Too many years spent bending to the whims of finicky electric stoves, trapped between rented walls, have left me aching for the freedom of an open gas range.  Just think, with a flick of my wrist I can control the fire that will transform a selection of ingredients into either the disgusted or the divine.

Of course, this obsession with my own stove is relatively new.  It wasn’t so many years ago that I detested such symbols of domesticity.  Cooking, to me, was a chore –  one which took me away from more intellectual and personally beloved activities like reading, writing, and (ahem) watching t.v.  The youngest of three daughters, I always had a distaste for activities that were “appropriately feminine.”  I hated cleaning and cooking, considering them the gateway drugs to becoming the proverbial barefoot and pregnant housewife.  Why, I demanded, was I not allowed to sit on my duff watching t.v. and partaking of delicious morsels and hand-delivered ice-cold beer as the menfolk did?  Taking action in the kitchen was admitting defeat in the battle for feminine equality.

Enter graduate school.  I was stuffed away in a room of my own, studying human rights into the oil-burning hours of night in a town far away from my home.  I was poor and living in a two-bedroom apartment with another non-cooker, living off of take-out, sandwiches (quite easily my favorite food group), and microwave dinners.  At the urging of my roommate, I had cabled installed and soon found myself spending my days watching the Food Network, and my nights hitting the books.  I became a disciple of Giada De Laurentiis, considered Sandra Lee my happy-hour-gal-pal, fell head-over-heels for Bobby Flay, bonded on a deeply nerd-tastic level with Alton Brown, and felt comforted by the grandmotherly love emanating from Paula Deen.  These Food Network stars became my family and we celebrated, as many families do, over delicious recipes that nourish the body and soul.

Before I knew it, I was cooking.  And cooking.  And cooking.  I tried new recipes, old recipes, and even invented some of my own.  My roommate loved it – I became the “little woman” serving a piping hot meal when she got home from work.  I continued to watch my extended family on the food network and they became my gurus, my teachers, my inspiration.  One year later, I was cooking my first “whole bird” and serving it to a group of friends at a dinner party.  That night, I fell in love.  I became drunk from the feeling of pleasing others with delicious food, hospitality, and comfort.

I no longer consider cooking synonymous with patriarchal oppression.  But rather, I see it as another way to express myself.  The stove is my medium for creating momentary expressions of my current life.  Peppery pasta when I’m feeling feisty; a hearty stew when I need comfort; a rich dessert when I’m in the mood for sin and lust.

Currently, I am without stove.  I am in limbo between living with my parents and living with my boyfriend.  It’s been ages since I held my last dinner party and it feels as though something is missing.  I long for the laughter dancing on the aromas from the kitchen, the wine flowing over the glass, and the warmth that comes from serving those I love.  You see, my dream stove – a stove of my own – can be any color, any shape, any size, just so long as it works.  And that it runs on gas.

That’s definitely a salad, if we ignore the mayo and sugar.  But I give it credit for putting it on a bed of lettuce and placing the strawberries near the crown of the plate.  Now, here’s my concoction.  It doesn’t have the photo finesse created by Cooking Light experts, but it tasted great:

If you’re interested in taking a bite into this sandwich, follow these simple steps:

The before shot of Darrin's favorite pizza.

And the after shot. We like it extra crunchy (slash) I left it in the oven too long.