Sometimes you know, before the very first taste, when a recipe is right. When I slid that floppy crepe out of the skillet, it looked exactly like the one my mother used to love. I sprinkled it with sugar, rolled it up, then heated rum and struck a match. The flames leapt up, and as they died I wished, for just a moment, that my parents could be with us. They’d encouraged me to follow my passion—even though it was one they did not share. It’s been a long and very satisfying journey. I hope they know that.
