Gwyneth Paltrow to publish cookbook, "My Father's Daughter"

Gwyneth Paltrow is on the most recent cover of the US Vogue, talking about the cookbook she has penned entitled, "My Father's Daughter." Quite a strange name for a cookbook isn't it? Well, it turns out that all the recipes in there are derived from recipes of dishes her father used to make when he was alive, and her interpretation of his favourite dishes at different restaurants around the world. The introduction to the book is also very moving- " I always feel closest to my father, who was the love of my life until his death in 2002, when I am in the kitchen. I can still hear him over my shoulder, heckling me, telling me to be careful with my knife, moaning with pleasure over a bite of something in only the way a Jew from Long Island can, his shoulders doing most of the talking..."

I've always felt a sense of familiarity with Paltrow's reaction to her father's demise, mostly because I have felt the same way. I've written many articles about my own Father, and like her, I too felt like I lost the most important thing in my life upon his passing. While I've read her talk about her father over the years, and while I've written about mine through them (who incidentally too passed away in 2002), I didn't realize we had another common ground that bound us together- our memories with our respective Fathers that were associated with food. While her's cooked the dishes they ate, mine painstakingly drove us to some of the best restaurants in the world to sample their cuisine. While my father was fond of all different types of food, his weakness really lay with French food, and I always say, I'm convinced the only reason he ever bought our house in Switzerland was because of the restaurants it had. The whole family would rise early and be up and ready only to drive a few hours to Vevey, Martigny, Lausanne or other such destination, to go to one of their fine dining restaurants there and enjoy a delicious five course meal. When my sister, brother in law and I drove an hour away from central London a few weeks back, to dine at The Waterside Inn, we couldn't help but think of my Father, and reminisce about how he would have loved the small restaurant, it's cottage-like atmosphere, and not to mention, it's food. Towards the latter part of his life, my father had been ordered to be on a strict vegetarian diet free of sodium, and to take away his food from him, was in many ways to take away his reason for being. He'd sometimes hide from us and go for a meal where he could enjoy his foie gras in peace, or he'd live (and eat) vicariously through us, ordering too much at restaurants and insist we enjoy the delicacies that he was forbidden to indulge in. He absolutely loved his food, a trait, if you've been reading my blog while I've been on holiday,  you'll see I've inherited.
While unlike Paltrow or her father, I can't really even make an omelet to save my life, I too always feel closest to my father while sitting at a quaint French restaurant, about to take a tiny bite out of my already bite-sized first course. I smile, just as he would have, ignoring all the butter and cream that is deceptively concealed in such a tiny size, and just like he would have (probably somewhat wrongly) advised me all those years ago, I postpone the worry about the calories till later.
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