This past summer my grandfather – known by all as Pipop – passed away. In the midst of all of the insanity we taught my Nana a valuable lesson in today’s lingo. We discussed, “We’re out,” “Whatup,” and even “redic.” I think one of the only things that stuck that week was, “Foodie.” Defined as one who enjoys, makes, creates, appreciates, loves and does food. 

At some point that week, after many home-made dinners, and even more deli platters and desserts, I said, “Nana, we’re foodies.” All in agreement, my entire family nodded as it made perfect sense to us. I couldn’t tell you when that actually happened though. It could be the hundreds of family dinners, the dozens of holidays, countless BBQs, endless Sunday brunches or the meal that happens when there are a group of people at my parents house and there is a sudden combustion of plates, garlic and hungry mouths.

Being a child of a foodie is a big responsibility. You have to entertain like your parents do. You have to cook with your heart and not just your head. You have to do it just like them, but still in your own style. You have to know how much pasta is for 2, 4, or even 12 people. And perhaps, most importantly, you always have to be able to get back to where it all started. That table where the foodies once ate altogether. 

Now that I live two hours away from my parents, I make sure to give notice and let the head-foodie-in-charge know when I will be back, for how long and if I will be there for dinner. That answer is always “yes.”