Welcome To Franck's Kitchen!

Ok, so this isn't really Franck's Kitchen, it's my dream kitchen borrowed from the House Obsession. Since I am so freaked out by the idea of stepping into a cuisine - I might as well envision one that makes me feel comfortable: small, and simple, with lots of light, warm flooring, and touches of green. Now that we're inside, pour yourself a glass of Chianti as I explain.

I've grown up surrounded by food - or should I say cuisine. When my Mom fell in love with my Dad, a purebred Italian, she learnt all his favourite recipes and probably coined the term, "The key to a man's heart is through his stomach." We grew up without a microwave, a garden growing oregano in the backyard, freshly baked cookies in the morning, and 'Agnello In Crosta' at night. Rather than watching Mom in the kitchen, I was off taking violin lessons, ballet lessons, swimming lessons, ad infinitum. Twenty-three years later, I could play Vivaldi's Four Seasons but didn't know how to read a recipe, and truthfully, didn't care to. 

Then I met Franck. Now, we all hear lots of stories about women putting on the apron and cooking a great dish for their man, but in my case, I might as well have been back at Mom and Dad's because every night when I would come home, for five years, Franck would have dinner waiting. Franck is French and we live in Paris - so when I say dinner, I mean this: a bottle of wine (or two), great table settings (Ok, that's me), a first course, a second course, always accompanied by a fresh salad, and an assortment of cheese for desert. 

Fast forward to the present. I'm twenty-eight years old and we're newly engaged, I'm deputy editor of a magazine, co-founded and manage a fantastic collective of international artists, got a dog, called him Emile, and I still can't cook. Except that now, I want to. 

Kinda.

Even though for years I have been hyperventilating at the thought of entering a grocery store, I have tried to convince myself that 'grocery shopping' is still 'shopping' and therefore can be fun. And since cookbooks scare the bejeezus out of me, (I have issues with people who mix numbers with words, just ask my old finance professor) - I have decided that out of love for my fiancé Franck, once a week, I will scour the net for a food blog and try a (beginner) recipe, and cook dinner for my man, in heels. Because if stilettos give me that extra boost of confidence in the boardroom, then it should work in the kitchen too, right? 

Please join me as I dive into unknown territory: Franck's Kitchen.  
Wish me luck. 

XX Caterina, the Anti-Chef