I’ll start with an introduction. My name is Allen Tracey, I’m twenty-five and I’ve worked in restaurants since I was seventeen years old. I wouldn’t describe myself as an artistic cook. I like good satisfying food. Overcomplicating a dish can turn people off. Most people are not used to more sophisticated dishes and tend to look at them hesitantly on menus, or worse, ask questions about them that the servers can’t answer.
Growing up in the south, I had the benefit of eating some of the best and simplest food in the world on a regular basis. Every October, the Chambers family reunion gave me the opportunity to taste the cooking of my mother’s family. The table, set buffet style, was the length of the building. The smell of ham, collards, fried chicken, and uncountable casseroles filled the old community building. Sadly, too many of the people there were diabetic, so the deserts were a little lacking .
My great aunt Mary Ellen, a deceptively frail woman, was one of the finest cooks I ever knew. She always kept a healthy garden and a stocked freezer. Whatever she grew, she either used or canned. And even after thirteen years, I’m sure I could still find a few jars of her tomatoes, fresh as the day they were canned. Her outlook was that she was working to feed her family, no matter how few of us actually sat down for dinner. All of the food was cooked with the intent to comfort and welcome tired and hungry loved ones.
And that’s how I like to cook. I enjoy using fresh food and old family cookware to give people the since of comfort that I grew up with. Those old traditions are in danger of being forgotten, and something so simple and honest should be remembered. Cook for the ones you love, not for the faceless critics.