I didn’t grow up in a house where the food was great. It was fine. It filled you up. But it wasn’t a source of joy. It wasn’t an art form. It wasn’t a language of love.
I don’t think my mom enjoyed cooking. It just wasn’t a joy for her. Dinner got made because it had to be, not because anyone loved the process. My dad would cook on the weekends — steak, meatloaf, and chicken cutlets — which always felt like a treat. His “secret” sauce? A1.
And that was the extent of it. I didn’t know food could be anything more than that.
And then, one day, I walked into Linski’s kitchen. And everything changed.
Linski wasn’t my mom — but I mistakenly called her “Mom” once, which tells you a lot. She was my best friend Ameer’s mom. We spent endless hours at their house in Poughquag, New York — a mansion on a horse farm, a world away from my modest childhood home. The house was beautiful, sprawling. But it was the kitchen that truly blew my mind.
It was massive — a chef’s dream. The kind of kitchen where something was always simmering, roasting, baking. And the smells... beef stew on a cold afternoon. Thin-crust pizza coming out of the oven. Lasagna bubbling over with cheese and sauce. And on ski trip mornings, crepes with lemon and sugar, hot off the pan. You didn’t just smell that food — you bathed in its aroma of love and care.
She also had her little kitchen secrets. Her husband, Ameer’s dad, was Muslim — so when he was out of the house, Linski would quietly cook bacon for us. It was our little food secret. She’d wink and say, “Shh... just for my little friends.” And there we were, eating crisp strips of bacon in this big, beautiful kitchen, feeling like we were in on some wonderful, forbidden magic.
She would greet us — me, Ameer, and whoever else was tagging along — with a big smile and her signature greeting in her warm Eastern European accent:
“Hello, my little friends!”
And we were. We were her little friends, running through her house, piling around her table, stuffing ourselves with the kind of food that made you feel loved in a way I hadn’t known before.
We also used to jam music at her house. Ameer on bass, me doing my best Ginger Baker on the drums, and our buddy Matt Kelly on guitar. The three of us banging away playing “White Room” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in the spare room — and that was the origin of our high school band, the Soul Bugs. The house always felt alive, filled with music, food, friends, and a kind of warmth that’s hard to describe but impossible to forget.
The first time I tasted her cooking, it was a revelation. Food could taste like this! Not just fuel, not just something to get through — but something that made time stop and life feel full.
For a kid whose own mom wasn’t much of a cook, this was a whole new world. I had found a new part of myself, and a new connection to how I related to the world. I started lingering in that big kitchen. Watching. Smelling. Learning — even if I didn’t know it yet.
I think that was the day I fell in love with cooking. Not the act of it, but what it could do. The effect it had on me and on others. The world it opened up. The feeling that care could be expressed through flavor. How it could create connection. How it could make people feel at home. How it could become a way of saying I love you without saying a word.
Now, decades later, I cook for my own family. I write about food. I experiment with beans and bowls and sauces and stews. A lot of the spirit that started in Linski’s kitchen still guides how I cook today — you can see it in simple rituals like this one: Flavor Bomb Cook-Ahead List. And every time I pull a hot dish out of the oven or plate a meal with care, some little part of me is back in that kitchen in Poughquag — one of Linski’s little friends, soaking it all in.
So here’s to Linski. To the woman who taught me that food can be love. And to the lasagna, the pizza, the lemon-sugar crepes — and the joy that still lives on in every meal I make.
For Ameer, and in memory of your mom. Thank you for sharing her with the rest of us.
After a whirlwind family trip to Chicago—complete with Wrigley magic, Italian beef, and Vinny Capra Day™—we came home bloated, tired, and over it. One warm, silky bowl of angel hair pasta with butter, peas, pancetta, and crispy breadcrumbs was all it took to feel human again. A reminder that coming home doesn’t have to be fancy—just real.
On the last day of third grade, my daughter came home heartbroken — and reminded me just how deep a child’s heart can feel. A small story of grief, comfort, and boba tea.
A reflection on how a simple Dad’s Advice slide deck became the seed of this blog — a place to store wisdom, life lessons, and love for my kids to return to someday.
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