When I was six years old, I wrote a three-paragraph memoir, ending with the following promise to myself, “One day, I’m gonna move to Greenitch Vilage and be a wrighter.”
Soon thereafter, my parents and sister became my first editors for the scribbled stories in turquoise crayons that we mailed to the New York Times for fun. Then others, for real. All along, my aunts, uncles, and cousins made me feel beautiful, important, and writerly, as I grew from a kid to a teenager to a thirty-something. A million thank-yous to all of them. Especially to my mother’s mom, Dorothy Pava. No one has a family as loving as mine.
But eventually, I had to bring in the big guns.
My eternal gratitude goes to Pilar Queen at McCormick & Williams, who, while inhaling macaroni and cheese at City Bakery, said that I had a book in me and then became my agent and confidante. If it were up to me, I’d consult with you before every first kiss, sit-up, and midnight snack.
Also, to the great David McCormick, who graciously let me talk his ear off before his first cup of coffee. Sorry I’m so loopy around you—extremely dignified people just have that effect on me.
I owe so much to Emily Takoudes, my editor, who kindly and generously guided me through mountains of self-doubt and tough times without ever losing her patience. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being your most unprofessional author, telling you way too much information, and stalking you as an editor and friend for life. Not to mention the bragging rights included!
Angelin Borsics, thank you so much for all the warm encouragement and spot-on edits. And to Emily’s assistant, Hilary Sims, bless your heart for tying up so many loose ends. How lucky was I to have you both?
To all my friends from Longmeadow, New York, D.C., and L.A., you can finally stop saying, “You need to write a book about this shit.” I live for you guys; I mean it. Shelley gets first dibs on who should play her in the movie though.
A huge thanks to Alan Sytsma at Grub Street for giving me a shot, even after I told him that the real me would rather eat dinner on a picnic blanket than at Per Se. And to my former colleagues at the various magazines, thanks for letting me stick around for all of the glamour and none of the grit. Especially Liz McNeil, who has provided me with work and wisdom at the best and worst of times.
Rachel Shelasky, my exquisite sister, gets a second shout-out because she’s also a professional research editor and helped me enormously with nitpicky details that would have otherwise ruined my life. Rach, I love you so much.
To all the men I have loved hard or liked briefly, don’t be mad; I made you all sound really hot.
And to Chef, whose heart is of the purest kind: You helped me more than anyone with the Apron Anxiety blog and book. Thank you forever and ever. Now finish up those potato chips; this is the final page.