People sometimes ask me where I learned to cook.

The funny thing is, no one ever really taught me.

I learned by hanging around the kitchen.

My mom worked the night shift as a nurse. She'd come home in the morning, get us off to school, and then sleep until around 4:00 in the afternoon. I'd get home from school and walk into the kitchen where there might be a bag of potatoes on the counter, two cans of chicken and rice soup in the pantry, and a package of pork chops thawing in the sink.

I knew exactly what to do.

As the oldest of three girls, I was proud to help. There wasn't much room for creativity, but there was something even more valuable: responsibility. I was in charge of getting dinner started, and I knew I could do it.

I could make boxed mac and cheese without looking at the directions. I knew how to bake chicken patties and fish fillets in the toaster oven. I'd add frozen corn and a generous spoonful of margarine to a CorningWare dish and microwave it until it was steaming. By the time my mom woke up, dinner was well underway.

Every night, the five of us sat around the table together.

We weren't an especially busy family, but my parents both worked incredibly hard. My sisters and I learned to do a lot for ourselves. Looking back, I realize that those ordinary afternoons quietly shaped me. They taught me confidence. They taught me that feeding people matters. They taught me that I was capable.

Years later, I learned to cook all over again.



After college, I moved to Chicago and into my first apartment. Suddenly, cooking wasn't about getting dinner on the table before Mom woke up. It became an adventure.

I wandered the neighborhood markets in Wicker Park, filling my tiny kitchen with ingredients I'd never seen growing up. I discovered chayote squash and made a creamy risotto with it. I shopped at the neighborhood Ukrainian deli for incredible soups and salads, then came home determined to recreate them myself. I fell in love with cookbooks, spending evenings cooking my way through How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman while dreaming over the beautiful recipes of Julia Child, Diana Kennedy, and Mollie Katzen.

Cooking became an act of curiosity. Every recipe taught me something new.

Then I learned to cook again.

When Cedar and Ren were little, I had the incredible gift of being home with them. We spent our days exploring farmers markets, tending our garden, baking bread, and making so much from scratch. The kitchen became our classroom.

The kids loved rolling homemade pasta, mashing bananas for muffins, washing vegetables, and picking warm cherry tomatoes off the vine for homemade pizzas. They weren't helping because they had to—they were helping because they wanted to. They were doing exactly what I had done years earlier: hanging around the kitchen.

Watching. Stirring. Asking questions. Becoming capable.

Looking back, I realize my lifetime of cooking has never really been about recipes.

It's been about self-efficacy—the quiet confidence that comes from knowing, I can do this.

It's been about caring for the people around me by feeding them well.

And it's been about curiosity: wondering what happens if I try a new ingredient, a new technique, or a new way of bringing people together around the table.

As Schoolhouse approaches its 10th anniversary next year, I've been reflecting on everything we've learned together. My own family. Our incredible team of instructors. The thousands of kids and families who've joined us in the kitchen over the past decade.

So much of what we teach isn't really about cooking.

It's about confidence.

It's about creativity.

It's about caring for yourself and for the people you love.

Whether you're making boxed mac and cheese, your first loaf of bread, or a meal you've dreamed up entirely on your own, every time you step into the kitchen you're learning something about yourself.

Here's to many more kitchen adventures—wherever you are on your cooking journey.