Here is the Prologue from my new book "My Life in Recipes"
I was sitting in the community hot tub one afternoon when the talk moved, as it often does, to food. My daughter was visiting Budapest at the time, and I mentioned the picture of the strudel shop she had sent me that had shelves of strudel with golden crusts and various brightly colored fillings.
“Definitely looks worth visiting,” I said, “I think I’ll plan a trip to Hungary.”
“My Hungarian grandmother’s strudel was divine,” our neighbor Mark commented. “The crust was so flakey. The fillings, the perfect mix of sweet and tart.”
“Do you have the recipe? I’m writing a book.”
“Ha! That’s the problem! Grandma wouldn’t share the recipe. When she was literally on her deathbed, we begged her for it. I can still see her deeply wrinkled face and her glittery little eyes, the faded old kerchief she was wearing. She held her blanket tight in her fists, stubbornly stuck out her chin and slowly shook her head ‘no.’ What a tragic loss. I mean, Grandma—she was old and ready to go, but the recipe . . . .”
“That’s exactly what I’m writing about.”