About five minutes pass between the moment I open my eyes in the morning and when the last wild-freshly picked blueberry is dropped into the pancake batter my grandmother swears is famous. As I get older I begin to cherish the time spent in the kitchen for a variety of reasons. Growing up in a fairly simple culinary family from a cultural standpoint, special food to me has always been a love hate relationship. Admitting that my parents come from very different backgrounds both from a societal and economical standpoint is key to understanding what food means to me. My mother was raised in a family of eight, never struggling but always appreciative of food on the table. On my fathers side of the family, my grandmother has always taken great joy in cooking and has influenced me greatly through my younger years. It would be fair to say that cooking throughout my childhood was more of a stress than anything else. However as I grow older I have started to cook on my own and enjoy cooking so much that time fades away, aside from the inevitable timer to ensure a medium rare steak. Taking time to sit down and plan a meal, preparing fresh ingredients and enjoying one of the world’s greatest pleasures can be defined as a hobby, personality trait, or even just something you do. The feeling of creation starts for me in the grocery store, i am always looking to cook something that I have never tried before. Freedom in the kitchen to me is the ability to try something new and enjoy that for myself. Michael Pollen’s essay “Out of the kitchen, Onto the couch” brings out a lot of negativity involving the culinary world. Along with all the negativity around the world today I believe that while yes, the idea of food to diner table is increasingly lost. Pollen says “less interested in making it fast or easy than making it right, because cooking for her was so much more than a means to a meal.” There is a big difference between work to make a meal and time spent in the kitchen to produce something I’m happy with. I find myself in the middle of this conversation not knowing whether or not to lean into the beautiful and vibrant side of cooking, or the downfall of America Pollen seems to portray. Simple moments of my dad talking about how he would cook for his college roommates in New York help pull me in what feels like the right direction. Growing up with a rough around the edges perspective around food, even the little moments like this help me open my eyes to how good a home cooked meal can be. It reminds me of the feeling I have when your avocado is perfectly green and yellow, or garnishing a dish of pasta as everyone flocks to the table.