Every weekend of my childhood, my family made the trip to my grandparents’ house. Growing up in communist Romania, there weren’t many other places to go or things to do — so family time was the entertainment, and we made the most of it. Cousins, aunts, uncles — we’d all gather there, and the whole weekend would unfold in a blur of playing, talking, and, most importantly, eating. I can still picture the tables pushed head to head, stretched long enough to seat all of us at once, and I can still hear the laughter and the stories that filled that room.
And the food. My grandpa’s fresh summer salad — tomatoes, cucumbers, and green onions, all pulled from his own garden that morning, dressed in nothing more than oil and salt, but somehow good enough that everyone abandoned their forks and reached for a spoon instead. He’d sneak chili peppers into the big bowl meant for the adults, just to listen to my dad and uncles complain about the heat, grinning the whole time. And grandma’s rice pudding, sprinkled with cinnamon and served chilled in individual deep plates, always carried up from the cool of their underground wine cellar like it was something worth the trip.
Those weekends are where my love of cooking started. This site is where I’m passing it on — the recipes handed down to me, and the ones I’ve adjusted and reshaped over the years to fit my own family’s table. I hope you try them, I hope you share them with the people you love, and I hope you find yourself creating new traditions of your own.
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