Similar to mixing pigments for painting, or choosing words to evoke a mood or character, cooking demands understanding each ingredient. And as a former chef, restaurateur, industry consultant, and food writer, flavors were my foundation. How an ingredient tastes, how it reacts with others, and what it imparts to the finished dish. Does it add to the whole picture yet recede into the background, or assert its own personality? Intuition plays a large part in this, trusting in that serendipitous moment when you know the dish needs something else to make it shine. That’s when the magic beckons. I believe my best culinary teachers were my grandmothers. They taught me to embrace my intuition, that an instinctual call is sacred, not gifted to everyone who cooks. And that appreciation and respect of food results in it giving a dish its essence, its spirit—that indefinable sprezzatura that turns a good meal into something transcendent. When I stand at my range, I sense the spirits of my grandmothers and their ancestral teachers as they gather round me, conferring, arguing, laughing. And my willing ears wait patiently for their advice.