Perhaps in an attempt to jog the culinary childhood memory of the reader or just to share specific kitchen advice, Knisley has peppered recipes, tips, and guides at the end of each Relish chapter. “A new and old place at once, different from the perspective of adulthood.” “I wanted to discover New York like I’d done with Chicago,” she writes.

This notion of repast as a portal to the familiar resurfaces again at the conclusion of Knisley’s undergraduate years, when she is struck with a bout of homesickness. After a long trip with her father, the two embark back to Knisley’s home to find stacked enchiladas made by the author’s mother. Wafting among the paneled stories like the sweet smell of those hot croissants lies the notion of food as a signal of place, specifically that of home. Like a time-traveling stowaway, we simultaneously indulge in Roman hot chocolate, roadside tamales with hot sauce and lime in San Miguel, and five apricot-jam croissants on the banks of a Venetian canal. Her parents, who she likens to Zeus and Demeter, each independently accompany her on culinary journeys spanning the globe, plopping her everywhere from Japan to Canada -with every imaginable nourishment and delicacy waiting for us to optically feast. Not one to shy away from the use of color, Knisley portrays hand-drawn interpretations of dishes long since consumed, as though they lay perfectly preserved in her mind.Ī self-described puppeteer, ukulele player and food/travel writer, Knisley grew up in a world surrounded by a family of foodies: her mother, a former Dean & Deluca employee who formed her own farmer’s market stands in upstate New York, and her father, a refined eater who prefers to savor taste through dining out in search of the perfect meal.

Following Knisley from the countertops of her childhood apartment in downtown Manhattan to early mornings at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, her homemade meals and grocery lists guide the reader through a childhood of bustling movement and taste exploration. In the absence of visual representation, one may interpret crowding as tight as a tin of sardines or as light as a bag of fluffy marshmallows.Įnter Lucy Knisley and her graphic memoir Relish: My Life In the Kitchen, a bright collection of stories and memories centered on food, her family, and her upbringing. But without understanding what this actually means, as one’s interpretation will invariably differ from another’s, the only result is a disappointingly inconsistent sauté. It’s a mantra recited time and time again in cookbooks, culinary shows, and even some Hollywood films.

Relish my life in the kitchen