Willkommen. Bienvenue. Welcome. C’mon in.

My name is Gillian. I am nearly 47 years old. I like to cook and bake. I come from a long line of cooks and bakers.

This blog is for my children, who are known for standing in grocery store aisles, calling me for advice:

• I can’t remember what else I need for won-ton? And how do I make it?
• Mr X likes meatloaf, how do I make it?
• What’s the best kind of rice? And how do I make it?
• What do I need to make the special dipping sauce? And, oh, yeah, how do I make it?

Truly, I get more food related calls from them than anything else. It’s a Duran thing. I remember calling my parents, because I had to ask my dad how to make something. My mom told me he was refusing to talk to me - and my sisters, because we never wrote anything down. Like mother, like child, I don’t think any of the kids have written a thing down.

My ethnic background is pretty schizoid. My dad is half Filipino, quarter Spanish, quarter Native American Indian. Born in Oklahoma, raised in California, a career Marine who spent time in SE Asia and Japan before settling down with my mom. My mom, the really white lady from SW Missouri. Her background is WASP, WASP and for good measure, more WASP.

My childhood was a battleground for Cultural Supremacy. My dad would be gone, and my mom would fry up taters, make us eat beans and cornbread, and entertain us with stories about growing up in the Ozarks. My mom the reporter would be covering a school board meeting, a city council session, and Daddy would make fish and rice. He’d beguile us with stories of San Francisco and play jazz records.

Throw in the whole military brat thing and growing up in San Diego county, California in the Seventies, and well, it was an interesting upbringing.

I have four offspring: two sons, two daughters. They were well fed growing up. I fed them like my father fed me; I baked for them the way my Grandmother baked for me. Neighborhood children gathered in my kitchen on a regular basis. Friends and family usually go straight to my fridge to look for leftovers.

As you might imagine, I am very opinionated regarding food. My dad’s father was a farm worker in the San Joaquin Valley. I know what fresh produce is supposed to look like, feel like, taste like, smell like. Bottom line: if God had wanted me to eat fruit from WalMart, I’d have been born in Wichita, KS. Since I wasn’t, I don’t believe in settling.

I find myself eating seasonally, because I don’t care if it’s summer in the southern hemisphere, it’s still shipped an ungodly distance and it still sucks. Fish is problematic, because the Asian in me longs for it, but fish in the Atlanta metro is iffy at best. Sadly, I live too far from the Dekalb Farmer’s Market. I’m in Cobb, it’s in Decatur and my truck only gets about 12 miles to the gallon, so there you have it.

The plan is to post a recipe a week. I’ll actually make it, photograph it and have it posted sometime between Saturday/Sunday of each week. First up, a signature dish, as decided by an informal poll I took about a year ago.