People often make wistful remarks about the food they grew up eating. Typically, it’s mom’s apple pie or even grandma’s pot roast. The most memorable meals from my childhood were dished up courtesy of my dad. Once a month or so, when he happened to have enough time, he made vegetable lasagna from scratch. I can still smell the savory tomatoes baking in the oven.
My tastes for cuisine have developed with age. I’ve honed my own cooking techniques by branching out to diverse cultural dishes. Most of the food I make is infinitely more complicated than dad’s lasagna recipe, but any attempt to replicate it proves futile. The more I look back on those days gone by, the more I appreciate my father’s home cooking.