When I was a kid, there were three things I could be reliably depended upon to eat: Pop-Tarts, blueberries and roast beef sandwiches. I wasn’t a ridiculously picky eater, but I was far (so very far) from experimental in my tastes. Food seemed so basic back then anyway that the introduction of anything new (like the restaurant visit where my father tried to convince me that his “tortellini” was really calamari) seemed far too radical.

My family didn’t eat poorly; we just didn’t make much of a big deal about eating (no visits to farmers' markets, no herbs growing on the windowsill). We typically ate out at the Sizzler. My mom wasn’t one of those cookie-baking mothers; in fact, I still recall the time when I was about four, a cake for a dinner party fell apart as it came out of the pan, and my mom grabbed a bunch of daisies, stuck them in the middle and iced the thing back together. It was beautiful.

When my parents divorced when I was 13, my younger sister, Adrienne, and I lived with our father. Our cuisine got a little more varied—though not always for the better. I will never forget (or let my poor, well-meaning father forget) the first dinner he prepared for us the first night we spent the night at his new condo: eggplant with anchovy paste. My father had his heart in the right place, but he used that anchovy paste much as my mom had used the cake frosting. Even after baking, there were lines of paste still visible, as if they’d been squeezed out of a pastry bag. The result was inedible; the reaction from my sister and me, incredulous. I can’t imagine the depths to which my poor dad descended at that moment. We ended up at McDonald’s, where we had pancakes for dinner.

It was around this same time that my dad, my sister and I flew back east to visit my dad’s younger brother Irwin and his wife, Debbie, in Washington, D.C. Both political journalists, both just over five feet tall, both endlessly curious, they were living in a tiny apartment filled with books and batik hangings and beaded masks acquired during Irwin’s time spent in the Peace Corps in Senegal in the '70s.

We’d arrived at Dulles with lost luggage, something that had only given me, a 14-year-old, license to be even more irritatingly adolescent than normal. When the family piled in the car for points unknown, I no doubt spent the first half hour in the back seat with arms folded, lips clenched, as did my dutiful younger sister.

But then we arrived at Eastern Market on Capitol Hill, a bustling collection of stalls selling everything from fresh produce to oyster po’boys to hot chocolate. Adrienne and I became a little less glum as Irwin’s infectious enthusiasm for the place got the better of us. Then we stopped at the harbor where fresh seafood could be procured from the docks. I was mesmerized as a fishmonger wrangled two dozen blue stone crabs into a paper bag, and continued to be so as we rode home with this wriggling parcel in the backseat.

[My Uncle Irwin in the 1970s]

We returned to the apartment and I did my best Annie Hall impersonation, swatting at crabs with a wooden spoon, shrieking at any movement. Irwin and Debbie were focused on their task, but they also worked the crowd. I thought, then and now, that they had about the coolest life ever. I remember that even though the ingredients were out of my comfort zone, the smells seemed to be having an effect akin to the glasses of wine the adults were drinking: I was warming up to everything.

Uncle Irwin emerged from the galley kitchen, emptying an impossibly heavy pot of crabs on a table covered in newspaper, his wiry Brillo pad hair even more crazy from the steam. So the moment of culinary truth: Would I accept the proffered crustacean? After a moment’s hesitation, I tore into one and the lot of us at the table gleefully enjoyed the mess we were creating. I couldn’t remember ever having so much fun at the dinner table. When we thought we couldn’t eat another thing, Irwin reemerged with, of all things, steaming ceramic bowls of bouillabaisse, which, to my surprise even to this day, this Pop-Tart-snacking, calamari-eschewing teen not only tried, but finished.

It was this evening, nearly 30 years ago, that I began to understand the power of food. How true entertaining is to experience all of one’s senses, taking the time to taste, to smell, to observe, to listen. How bringing loved ones to the table to share a delicious meal is a unique and enviable talent. How the arduous process of preparation—from shopping to chopping to tasting to toasting—is all part of the deal.

[Uncle Irwin today]

My dear aunt and uncle, who now live in New York, excel—have always excelled—at this (that’s them working miracles in their tiny galley kitchen). Journalism has been their vocation; feeding their friends and family, their passion. I always eagerly anticipate sharing a table with them. What you might discover in the Tupperware in their refrigerator is, I guarantee you, better than anything you’ve eaten in weeks. In fact, when my aunt retired from the New York Times last year, her closest coworker very nearly cried over the impending loss of leftovers. Even if one of them ever burned or otherwise ruined something, they’d no doubt find a way to repurpose it into a risotto or terrine.

Like my treasured aunt and uncle, I too grew up to be a writer. Now, in my 40s, I am still hoping to grow up to be half as good a host.

[Main Image: Allison Arieff]