It was a Jewish household, but in many ways our Judaism was expressed by the conspicuous absence of all things Christian: no church, no candy egg hunts, no confessionals, no cookies by the chimney. And while we couldn't sing reindeer songs, we didn't attend synagogue either -- not even on Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashana. If Judaism is considered both a race and a religion, my family has always been more the color Jewish than the covenant. Nevertheless, no one ever dared to serve a honey-baked ham. And we certainly never had a Hanukkah shrub -- an object my mother considered to be merely a bastardized version of a Christmas tree.

But if my family lacked an organized religion, it was remarkably full of the ritual of life. We all believed in an unspoken liturgy of family love. And we all shared an unquestionable reverence for food. The only Jewish holiday we observe is Passover. We converge for this custom each year not out of worship to any deity nor commitment to any imposed tradition. We pay homage to Passover because it involves dinner. In my family, food is divine.

I started cooking small concoctions when I was 8 years old, the same year that my mother was diagnosed with stage-four, terminal cancer. These minor culinary contributions seemed to cheer my father and, for me, comfort food took on an entirely different meaning. I decided that food carries the energy of the person who cooks it, and therefore food made with love will always taste good. So I started preparing little meals of "medicine" for my mom. I put wishes in her food, focusing every bit of my childhood capacity for belief into those creations. The remission of her disease years later was nothing short of a miracle -- and for a while I really believed it was my "anti-cancer soups" that had cured her.

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As I grew older, cooking became one of my greatest passions. I even worked in kitchens professionally for a while. My sisters still love to test me at the table. "OK, what's in this?"

I'll slowly eat a spoonful, squint and pretend to struggle as I decipher the flavors. "Well, there's acorn squash, some crème fraîche, vegetable stock, a hint of fennel, and oh yes, marjoram." I can taste almost any dish and deconstruct the ingredients. But recipes are a bit like Latin -- once you know the basics, you can break down the larger message.

Now, cooking is my hobby and my art. To me, a good dough holds all the potential that a mound of clay contains for a potter. I can weave gorgeous sauces with my whisk, and use a Kitchen Aid mixer as both a stone and a chisel. Sometimes I cook because I wish to paint my apartment with the scent of warm bread, or to simmer away boredom or loneliness. Sometimes I cook to satisfy the people I love. But I suppose I also cook because it is my own kind of faith. I get to make something beautiful, tangible -- and edible. And like a Catholic, who can eat a wafer to absorb the body of Christ, I cook because food can be transcendent. One is literally what one eats -- the food breaks down and becomes the cells of the body -- so I believe you should be nourished with food made from inspiration.

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