Ironically, not the eyes of the Grandmother I knew well, my Nana- (as well as you can know someone at the age of nine, which I’ve found in retrospect is very well, as adults tend to be themselves around children).

I speak of the eyes of my Mother’s Mother, who’s company I always enjoyed throughout the years.  The one thing I remember about her, besides that certain pitch in her voice when I was about to royally screw myself, was her eyes.  They where this shade of blue that has no name.. not deep enough to be sapphire but not light enough to be that blue-crystal color.

Strangely only my one eye is blue, but it’s there I see my Grandmother.  And I find myself wondering if she genuinely liked to cook.  It’s not a question I ever thought to ask her.  I look through a few of her recipe cards that I have copies of from my Mother’s if-I-ever-lost-this-generations-of-recipes-would-be-irreplaceably-lost-she-should-scan-all-these-in-with-her-new-printer cookbook, a.k.a. her cookbook bible that is so stuffed full of awesomeness it has to be kept closed with rubber bands, and I wonder this.

I think it’s my immense enjoyment of not only my new class, but my new Chef (who’s also female), that prompted this question to pop into my head.  In this class we are just let loose-  it takes a lot of preparation, and it’s super fun when you’re done.

It feels like the day your dad takes the training wheels off your bike and you actually make it all the way down the street without falling, even though you know everyone is watching.

Especially because you know everyone is watching.

We have just enough freedom in this class to tie our own rope and heck, make sure it’s secure.

And it’s enthralling.

Incidentally yesterday also marked the one-year anniversary of us flipping a car over on an Italian freeway, surviving with our dog and 134 bottles of wine, and getting to tour Florence with our dear friends.

Olé.