Growing up in a family of 11 children, I was not compelled to cook. While my sisters and brothers learned to cook from our mother, I played the piano. Our father, who once played drums in a band for a living, recognized my talent and excused me from doing household chores. The rest of my siblings had to take turns cleaning the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, and cooking. I used to hear my father cautioning them about the damage to my wrists if they make me sweep the floor or cramping my hands and fingers if I cook our dinner after hours of playing my escalas and arpeggios.

The downside is obvious. I never learned to cook. But not learning to cook by osmosis from family members does not mean there is no desire for me to learn. Belatedly and mostly because I crave the food of my youth that I cannot find in American restaurants, I finally traded my piano for the stove.

The cooking gene had surfaced, and now I am hooked!