He kissed me, not a soft kiss, but a forced, hurried one, right between Period 4 and Period 5, we stood there in a secret rushed moment of youth, I, at the ripened age of eleven and him, a much wiser and older twelve, he kissed me.

And it was disgusting.

Utterly disgusting.

Not what little girls tucked comfortably away in their pink canopy beds dream about or are read to in tales of princes and peas where the kiss is The Event of Grandeur, ever so tender and complete and enveloping. The girl loses senses. Knees buckle. Long perfect blonde hair cascades between them. A tiny sigh is heard. And life as we know it is renewed.

This is what I had expected, what I’d been promised, in countless years of fairy tale grooming. And even though it was the seventies, an era where women proudly burned bras and demanded from men things that had never been demanded before, this little girl expected to swoon, blush, and feel whole and refreshed by her first kiss.

Instead, oceans of bubble gum grape saliva had infested my mouth. I’d always been a big fan of Hubba Bubba, heck, my sister and I nurtured our reputations based on the proud acknowledgement that we knew the guy who’d invented its unforgettable flavor, but, the critical difference was that I chose when to taste it and between Period 4 and Period 5 in the stairwell that day was not one of those moments.

My kissing mate misread my initial hesitation as a moment of shyness (one of many poor calls in judgement) and proceeded to plunge further into my mouth; his thirsty, clumsy tongue digging deeper and deeper in feign attempts of pleasure he swept my throat for tonsils, it seemed. And I fought this alien creature slivering inside me, eyes watering, mind spinning, I wondered why I’d been fooled into believing this would be the luckiest moment of my life (and with a sixth grader no less!) But instincts are uncontrollable things and mine kicked in after the initial moment of horror wore off. I ripped myself away from my self-appointed courter and, right there, between Period 4 and Period 5, on his Nike-clad feet (coveted shoes hard to secure in Venezuela back then) I spat, spat, spat that Hubba Bubba flavor in desperate efforts to remove the memory from mind.

I looked up to find a small ego staring back at me (for no one had used his toes as a spittoon before) and my eyes winced as my body moved away (wishing now I’d taken the main stairs and gotten a good seat at World Geography instead) and not a word transpired between us, two fallen lovebirds, both equally shocked by the action of the other, we drifted away leaving the stairwell with its memory and puddle of grape saliva.

The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects silliness to reign. So it seemed fitting that Ramat Shalom would have a real life Buzz Lightyear headed your way.

Sure, there’s the whole logical story behind it:  Purim commemorates how Queen Esther and Mordechai saved the Jews from Haman, the evil minister of the Persian king.  On this holiday, costumes are worn and the Megillah (the Book of Esther) is read to recount this tale of survival.  Hamantaschen, (also called “Oznei Haman”, or Haman Ears in Hebrew) are the treat of choice.  I nibble on my husband’s ear on ocassion, but it pales in comparison to this: tiny triangles of tender, buttery pastry curled up against a dollop of tangy apricot, hearty prunes, or, for the lucky ones, rich melted chocolate.

For my kids Purim is equally important in their repertoire of holidays.  I assume they’d have to agree with Rabbi Andrew and say it’s because of the costumes- the opportunity to relive the splendor of Halloween, without having an ominous light to it.  Catalogues of costumes are meticulously scanned by my daughter and of course, there will be the mandatory visit or two to the party store to scour through their costume section.  It is much leaner than the selection they carry in October, but then again, so are the crowds of shoppers, so I don’t mind going several times to appease my kids.

They look at pictures of witches and fairies and superheroes and eagerly discuss amongst themselves what they are going to be.  Then, they both turn to me and their eyes light up, two sets of beautiful almond eyes flanked by swooping long lashes lock on me and I know I am in trouble.  Their eyes are pools of irresistible power and when they shine in the light just so, swirling in a sea of butterscotch and they blink blink blink those eyes are powerful weapons and I know, whatever it is they want, I know they will get.  They know they’ve got me by the way my body just slows to a stop and I wait.  Wait for it. Whatever it is.  They smell victory.  They are good at this, they know.  Years of practice pays off.  So they ask me, not if, but what I am going to dress up as?  If I weren’t under their spell I’d try to tell them Purim is just for the kids to dress up, but I can’t say that, I won’t.  After all, their rabbi knows it’s all about goofy fun and is headed to infinity and beyond, so why shouldn’t I?

Cheating comes in many shapes and sizes, and in this case, flavors.  Sitting at the dinner table, next to The Professor and The Investor a tiny bead of sweat may begin to form on your brow, not because you can’t keep up with the talk, you are eloquent and intelligent and sophisticated, but because something much worse is about to happen, something that can shatter you but instead fuels you on, something you know no one will notice but you wonder what if they will? (Remember the time you hired the Personal Chef and you could tell right away, yes, you could, she had cheated on her cake.)  You are about to cheat on your gourmand title and are feeling a tad guilty because you know that the Investment Banker and the Professor are both wondering what delicious dessert The Famous Baker they are seated next to has brought for this intimate dinner party.

It will be good, it must be good, they acknowledge amongst themselves with self-assured stares.  You feel the tension rising; stakes are high. The asparagus soup was a delightful ice breaker from your host as was the equally tasty pot roast (albeit a tad simple, you would have added a pomegranate glaze with a hint of balsamic, because you are The Gourmand, the one with a drawer bursting with dried herbs and a garden exploding with fresh ones. They look up to and enjoy inviting you for obvious reasons.)

You love them all for it.  Each and every one is endeared to your heart in one fashion or another and you have volunteered dessert as a sign of this love. You have brought this cake, this magnificently simple cake, and like a true cheater you do feel that pang of guilt, an edge of betrayal, but you smile and bring forth your goods without revealing that inside the moist texture and chestnut top glistening with confectioner’s sugar lies a secret, a deep, dark secret you will never confess; must never confess.  You will only smile and say “thank you” as “oohs” and “ahhs” purr around you, deliciousness halts all conversation as forks greedily work cake into bellies that have anticipated but never realized such wonderful moist delights existed.

Of course, all cheaters need an outlet.  They need to get caught one way or another, and so, even if you are not willing to confess it in an intimate setting of twelve, you do so here, in this world wide platform of food lovers with the hope there will be some level of understanding.  Perhaps another occasional culinarian cheater will be reading this, one who will understand that a cake so delicious and easy and such an instant success originates not from the sweat of hours of kneading or mixing or even sifting, but right out of one of those cake boxes, no, strike that, two boxes, a horrible powdered pack of Betty Crocker Super Moist yellow cake mix and an equally horrible smaller box of pudding mix:  two things sacriligious to your identity, items your children gasp upon seeing (for they have been trained, well trained, to retract at the sight of preservatives.) And yet, here is this one tiny exception, when you allow it, better yet, celebrate it, quietly going against all beliefs and scruples, even trying to look the other way as you pour these tiny toxic boxes with way too many ingredients into your bowl and then redeeming your conscience by adding the rightful stuff:  organic eggs, sour cream, cherry liquor- all to create a celebrated smooth cake that eminates only compliments, lots and lots of compliments, reconfirming and elevating your status as The Best Baker All Around. Almost enough to make you not feel like a cheat in the kitchen, but like the tell tale heart that beats loudly under the wooden planks, you too can hear these ingredients shouting out their identity to your guests:

She didn’t do it all alone!  She used Betty Crocker!  And pudding mix!  She’s a cheater, a cheater, a cheater!

You manage to subside that voice and listen to the other dinner guests: they loved it and wonder what is that secret ingredient that makes it so good?

Of course, you know what to say.  It is not Niacin or dye #3, no no no, it is cherry liquor.

“Cherry liquor?” they ask, utterly impressed.

“Ah, yes, cherry liquor!” you reply with a casual air of sophistication.

And you laugh freely with them, the sweat dries, and you continue celebrating this intimate moment alongside The Professor and The Investor, both, asking for seconds, making your host beam as well.  Her dinner party is a success.  You have come through, you always come through, you are The Gourmand,  and although you rarely cheat, you realize this cheat is worth all the love and all the compliments, making it the perfect Valentine’s day dessert.

It’s Mark’s eyes that draw you in. I first came across them at a food conference in an expansive dining hall in Denver filled with big round tables and mounds of mini croissants. They were clear and blue and electric, like the calm before a storm or a lazy careless morning on the shores of St. Barts, but when they are engaged in a conversation with you, a conversation inevitably and rightfully about, what else, salt, the entire room gets filled with an intoxicating culinary energy that is simply contagious.

Mark Bitterman, owner and self-proclaimed selmelier of The Meadow shop in Portland, Oregon first told me about his store  specializing in salts, flowers, drinks and chocolates when we first met in Denver. It sounded lovely to own a quaint shop in the even quainter town of Portland and I imagined it overflowing with roses and pinot noir and an old-time world charm non-existent to my South Florida neighborhood whose foundations seem built on an abhorred obsession with strip malls and Applebees restaurants.

Then I attended his salt tasting at the Greenbrier and I was a changed woman. It was the nightcap to an evening filled with good wine and food. No doubt the wrong time for this, I thought to myself as my belly sat complacent and my body ached for my warm bed. I’m too full, and, it’s just salt, right? But I went anyway, because, quite frankly, how often can one say they’ve attended a salt tasting?

The room was cramped with other equally intoxicated foodies from the conference and Mark and a colleague were feverishly slicing cucumbers and buttering breads (I learned this was the way to sample salts, both a wet tasting and a dry one, respectively). And once that was all set, that is when those electric eyes kicked in as Mark pulled tiny glass bottles of multi-colored salt crystals, describing their characteristics, origins and tastes with the care, attention and passion a father does of his own children (this one has a mischievous streak, this one is faithful and delicious, this one will capture your heart.) I basked in an impassioned survey of the world of salt from colors to crystal formations to textures and realized it was a world  I knew nothing about, one where I learned I’d been, not only neglecting but abusing my taste buds with Kosher salt (tsk tsk), an item too sharp and unpolished to warrant the tongue.

It sounded crazy unless you were in that room, with that man and his cucumber and bread slices, and then it was just right because not only did he teach you, but he showed you as well, with bite after bite of salts, I learned to understand the nuances and beauty of the world of salt. And just like that, I was forever infected.

The night ended with a big show-off item: a huge beautiful block of Himalayan salt. Mark explained the many usages for such a block: from frying up the best egg ever, to sizzling pomme frites  (use the duck fat from that is cooking on your block as well), to curing sashimi and I knew that, alongside all the new salts I had to purchase to feel complete I must also have one of these.

As folks prepare to dish out the pizza, chicken wings and nachos for this weekend’s Superbowl, I will be fetching my beautiful block of salt for the simplest and tastiest of snacks: ensalata caprese. Thin slices of fresh mozzarella and plump tomato hugged by my garden basil and cured by my Himalayan beauty swim wonders on my tastebuds, making that, the best touchdown ever!

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. And then, sometimes it still doesn’t get done! I have pads of paper at my nearest reach: lost in the scary place that is my purse, scattered about my vehicle, fighting for space amongst half forgotten water bottles (baking for hours in the hot Florida sun), and then there is the grocery pad list on the fridge AND the iPhone application lists, iGrocery and To Do’s, respectively. Lists are a necessity. A requirement. So, why don’t I have one for food, I wondered out loud the other day while tackling the careful balance of tastes in my refrigerator (breathe the wrong way and my leaning towers of food will collapse)?

The answer for this one is a no-brainer for me: my tastes are too erratic, too temperamental, too unconfined to confine them to a list. That is the answer I want to give: it sounds cosmopolitan and articulate, the only snag is that it is, well…wrong.

Whereas I pride myself in being a culinary adventurer (I’ve yet to turn anything down, although I may take pause with the live cockroaches in China), I find myself headed down the road of comfort time and time again, back to meals that intrinsically make me feel better because of the emotional connection I have to them. Meals with a childhood story woven into them have me hooked, regardless if they are far from Michelin stars, and the older I get the more I seem to crave them.

So, while, yes, I do enjoy greatly a reduction of lamb with truffle foam and a sprinkling of fresh dandelion (it’s good, trust me) I am proud to say I happily gobble up a bowl of Spanish rice, not only because it is hot and filling and good, but also because each bite is brimming with stories my mother told me as a youth: stories about her adventures as a young adult in New York City, where money didn’t go far and to splurge on a meal meant to buy ground beef for a fancy dish of, you guessed it, Spanish Rice (always made to impress boyfriends, no less.) These were tales of adventure, resilience, and determination, not cuisine.

My mother, allegedly could not boil a pot of water before she got married, a detail I always questioned and deemed as wildly exaggerated for my mom was not only a cook, but a chef, creating delightful surprises meal after meal after meal. Yet I felt hugged and loved and nourished by the simplicity of her big bowl of Spanish rice which she’d happily plop in front of me, year after year and I’d ask, each time it seemed, I’d ask, for those stories of her in New York with her best friend Virginia and the endless amounts of Spanish rice. And so in my safe, comfortable home in Venezuela, where I would want for nothing and, quite frankly, was spoiled rotten as the youngest of three girls, I envisioned my tall and beautiful mother in her dank apartment on the Upper West Side (and not the chic part) scraping up enough to splurge on this delightful feast of Spanish rice, the same I would be spooning up happily in her company all those years later.

Spanish rice is not fancy. It’s not emulsified. It’s not even on a restaurant menu. But that doesn’t stop it from being top on my list, especially when paired with a nice green salad, a glass of hearty red, and the memory of a great story.

What’s top on your food list?  Let me hear from you!