Much of the wisdom that I might impart finds its origins in a kitchen. Food was ever a large portion of my life, far beyond a measure of necessary calories for sustenance. Some of my earliest memories, precious few that they are, hearken back to a kitchen. I remember the simplicity of a shredded wheat breakfast with my grand grandmother, the shared dinners with my grandparents, cooking for dinner parties as an adult, sharing the kitchen with my wife, and eating new things in strange places. Through each of these moments, certain smells or flavors trigger memories and gain a power, a magic, that - for me – only music rivals. Of these two forms of mortal sorcery, only with cooking am I remotely adept.