my sister and I as wee ones
This is my first post. I've been hemming and hawing about creating this blog for quite some time now. It's been a bit daunting, like if I spend all this time creating it, I suddenly am committed. Committed to all of you out there, committed to posting on a somewhat regular basis. The thought of that is a bit overwhelming as it's just in my nature to become bored over time, which is when I would normally move on to my next project. I am creating this blog so I can document what I am passionate about, but also to commit myself, or at least learn how to follow through. Plus, I recently took hostage of my dear mother's awesome Canon EOS 60D camera (which takes much better pictures of my creations than my dang iPhone).
I have endless recipes and photos to share with you, but it only seems appropriate to begin this cyber relationship with a proper introduction. Where oh where to begin. My name is Shiel, no, it's not short for anything (like Shiela). I'm twenty-four years old, turning twenty-five in September, eeek! I currently live in Burlington, Vermont with a group of lovely individuals, friends that have become family. I was born and raised in Vermont. My parents on the other hand are transplants, my mother coming from New York and my pa from Massachusetts. They built our house from the ground-up, real back-to-the-land type of folks. My dad dug our well by hand, my mom routinely did the daily farm chores with either my sister or I attached to her back. Pretty wild.
I could probably write pages about my childhood up until now. But as not to get too off course, lets stick with how I got here. I grew up eating straight out of my parent's garden. They also raised goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens. The connection between farm and table was one that I made at an early age, even if I wasn't consciously aware of it. Menu's in my house were dictated by what was ready to harvest. Okay, you're probably rolling your eyes at this point. A little too hippy dippy for your taste, but seriously, it's the truth. I was a well-fed child.
Fast forward 10 years, I'm around the age of 18. I graduate from high school, all ready to head out into the big world, move away to college, begin my life. I spend 6 months living in New York City, majoring in Nursing, and I suddenly hit a brick wall. I hate sitting in a classroom, I hate how stuffy everything is, I miss the quiet of Vermont, the greenery. I move back. A bit lost, a bit disheveled in mind. To keep sane, I find a job, just so happens to be at a local bakery. At this point, I have no baking experience, no real cooking experience either. Just a desire to distract myself from the ever impending feeling of failure. Okay, so it probably wasn't that bad. You must remember though, I was a mere 18 years old, who had just barely completed one semester of college. So there I was, baking away, getting lost amidst the sugar and flour and copious amounts of butter. I spent my entire summer there, throwing myself into the work like a madwoman. Who knew I would find my calling while rolling rugelach and piping pate a choux. Certainly not me, but there I was, suffering the summer heat alongside an old grouchy chef, happy as a clam.
There are of course many stories that will surface, offer more insight into the years in between. But lets stick with that for now.
And so it begins.
I have endless recipes and photos to share with you, but it only seems appropriate to begin this cyber relationship with a proper introduction. Where oh where to begin. My name is Shiel, no, it's not short for anything (like Shiela). I'm twenty-four years old, turning twenty-five in September, eeek! I currently live in Burlington, Vermont with a group of lovely individuals, friends that have become family. I was born and raised in Vermont. My parents on the other hand are transplants, my mother coming from New York and my pa from Massachusetts. They built our house from the ground-up, real back-to-the-land type of folks. My dad dug our well by hand, my mom routinely did the daily farm chores with either my sister or I attached to her back. Pretty wild.
I could probably write pages about my childhood up until now. But as not to get too off course, lets stick with how I got here. I grew up eating straight out of my parent's garden. They also raised goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens. The connection between farm and table was one that I made at an early age, even if I wasn't consciously aware of it. Menu's in my house were dictated by what was ready to harvest. Okay, you're probably rolling your eyes at this point. A little too hippy dippy for your taste, but seriously, it's the truth. I was a well-fed child.
Fast forward 10 years, I'm around the age of 18. I graduate from high school, all ready to head out into the big world, move away to college, begin my life. I spend 6 months living in New York City, majoring in Nursing, and I suddenly hit a brick wall. I hate sitting in a classroom, I hate how stuffy everything is, I miss the quiet of Vermont, the greenery. I move back. A bit lost, a bit disheveled in mind. To keep sane, I find a job, just so happens to be at a local bakery. At this point, I have no baking experience, no real cooking experience either. Just a desire to distract myself from the ever impending feeling of failure. Okay, so it probably wasn't that bad. You must remember though, I was a mere 18 years old, who had just barely completed one semester of college. So there I was, baking away, getting lost amidst the sugar and flour and copious amounts of butter. I spent my entire summer there, throwing myself into the work like a madwoman. Who knew I would find my calling while rolling rugelach and piping pate a choux. Certainly not me, but there I was, suffering the summer heat alongside an old grouchy chef, happy as a clam.
There are of course many stories that will surface, offer more insight into the years in between. But lets stick with that for now.
And so it begins.
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