I was born a short, pudgy, middle-class Jewish Kid in Far Rockaway, New York. My parents named me Morty after my dad’s brother.  Woody Allen may have exaggerated his childhood home as being under the roller coaster in Coney Island, but out in the furthest reaches of Queens we lived beneath the constant clamor of airplanes coming in and out of JFK airport. Rattling houses and jet-fuel showers. This was life at the end of the line on the A train.

Our world seemed to play by its own rules–the streets were a healthy mixture of Catholics and Jews, Eastern Europeans, Irish and Italians. Moms were in charge of the families and the meals. Dads couldn’t tell cumin from paprika. The family differences were not about economics, but rather what was on the table each night at dinnertime. There were —and are — many worse places to be from.

My parents, Beverly and Larry Aaronson, were boardwalk sweethearts in the 1950s. Dad drove the choo-choo train at the same small amusement park in Edgemere where Mom sold tickets from the booth. The exotic cuisines from every corner of the world that were available there made my parents foodies long before it was fashionable, and much before things like “organic” or “farm-to-table” existed.

My grandfather Abe Margulies, the family cook on my mom’s side and the son of Russian immigrants, owned a Kosher vegetarian restaurant.  On dad’s side was my Uncle Benny Cohen. Uncle Benny really made cooking fun. He cooked wearing a short bathrobe, with a Camel sticking straight out of his mouth, a little gin in a glass and enjoying every moment in the kitchen These two men, both extremely important in my young life, were great cooks. They loved doing it and, more importantly, instilled in me a passion for food.

When my parents were children, they ate classic Jewish Eastern-European cuisine. When I was a child, we were offered tastes of whatever they ate: a mix of Jewish, Chinese, and Italian foods. We ate dinner as a family every single night and never started until Dad got home. We had breakfast on the weekends. The kitchen table was the center of my family’s life.

Whether out of town family, cross-town family, in-town family, my friends, friends of friends, or guys that worked with Dad, our kitchen was always full.  Mom never failed to put out more food than could possibly be consumed. Neighbors seemed to plan they’re eating time around Bev’s leftover schedule. Holidays were food extravaganzas.  Mom never took issue with getting up at 1:00 am to serve a full meal to my very hungry friends. She never questioned why we were so hungry. My friends all adored her.

At Mom’s funeral, I held back the tears as I exclaimed to the audience of those that knew her best by eating at her table: “You remember me as a fat little kid —you know, I was raised like veal.” I was overfed, overprotected and went off to college only to lose weight, and discovered a way of eating that reflected my cooking idols. I discovered that I had the same health-focused sensibilities as my grandfather — the organic farmer and power walker, mixed with the absolute joy of my Uncle Benny. Above all, I discovered that I had my mom’s love and celebration of the power of communal eating. I came to understand that cooking for others was the purest way of showing love.

As I got older,  I learned how much I loved markets, cookbooks, restaurants, the flavors of the world, growing my own veggies, and preparing food for my family and friends. I love new restaurants. In my early 20s, I explored the emerging and varied Pan-Asian cuisines on the North Side of Chicago. In the 80s and 90s, I was catapulted into fourteen years of foodie overdrive, eating through New York’s booming culinary landscape. And finally, I landed feet first in Denver, Colorado, our home since 1996, where the farm-to-table scene is great. These experiences and thousands of meals cooked for loved ones constitute my resume.

My wife Sue, and my kids, Sam and Jesse, are the primary recipients my cooking efforts. Aside from them, I cook for a select group of loyal friends and colleagues that have sat at my tables in NYC, the Hamptons, and here at home in Denver. Admittedly there was a dark period of almost 2 years in Atlanta that did not positively advance my cooking and entertaining skills.

I can tell you without skipping a beat who likes which protein, which herbs they can’t stand, and an endless litany of food aversions, allergies, and preferences. Cooking for picky eaters (my wife and best friend Sue may be the pickiest of them all) taught me how to put my loved one’s desires above my own. The limitations of the seasons taught me to use what was available. The impressively wide variety of preferences in my family taught me to adapt. 

What began as a hobby quickly transformed into a reason to be home and a way to interact with my children every day. It gives me a beginning, middle, and end to the day that I’ve rarely found at work. It’s given me time to contemplate and reflect and focus on the most simple and important question: What’s for dinner?

Nobody really needs to learn to cook from me. There are endless sources for inspiration and recipes. This book is about the joy I get from cooking for others and the hopes that it may provide some similar inspiration for you and yours.  Along the way I have  developed my own recipes that have, most importantly, pleased the people they were prepared for. Learning to cook was the easy part. Placing your desires behind those of your meal mates is tough. 

This book was written over my yer in isolation during the COVID-19 Pandemic. Cooking for Sue virtually every day, and  for our kids and their significant others has been my only outlet.  No dinner parties, no holiday meals with friends and families, no restaurants.  We are all waiting for the time when it’s safe to invite people over for dinner.  I’m already thinking about the season to come, the friends and family I have not seen, and what I’m going to make them for dinner.

To Sue, Sam, and Jesse–my 3 all-time favorite humans and by far the toughest table I have ever pleased 

To G.P and Uncle Benny–my cooking icons before it was cool

To the entire Arlow Family–let me take this opportunity to once again apologize for the Cactus Paddle Salsa.  Thanks for sticking it out until I got the hang of cooking for others.

To my recently departed father-in-law, Popsie–thank you for your enthusiastic response to everything I ever made for you.

To my dear friend and illustration partner, Ann Jasperson–thank you for encouragement and amazing illustrations

To all my dinner guests over the years–thank you for coming back.

And finally, to my Mom and Dad, who I think about and miss every day–I can still hear the laughter and drama of your meals, and the morning discovery of that one dish you forgot to serve still sitting in the oven. I love you.