No, my grandmother didn’t stand over a hot pot, lovingly stirring away as I clutched her apron. No aunt pulling a perfectly risen almond torte out of the oven. The family weren’t the most accomplished cooks, mostly serving up something quick and easy, like canned soup or scrambled eggs on a typical weeknight. Cooking in my house was considered a chore, something to get over with as quickly as possible.

So to this day I wonder how I became such a food nutter.

Having lived in the former USSR until the tender age of seven, a country that boasted nothing more than potatoes, farmer cheese and bread, I remember many firsts with food when we made it to the good ol’ US—things that can be easily taken for granted. There was the shocking, indescribable taste of my first banana, with its strange shape and smooth texture. My first slice of pizza, which, believe it or not, was an acquired taste, a culture shock of sorts, as there was nothing remotely like that in the old country. Then there was cereal. What an odd notion that everyone poured milk over something called “cornflakes”? (What?! You purposefully sog up a bready product?). And ah, gorgeous peanut butter, so shockingly good that I would get back on the grade-school lunch line for another fix. Trying all this stuff was thrilling, and made me realize: I’ll eat anything!