I am in the middle of a weeklong tribute to the recipes of my mother. I am lucky to have so many of her recipes compiled into a cookbook my brother put together after she passed away in 1993, long before her time.

Up until today I chose recipes from this collection that were familiar to me. Foods strongly attached to the woman I knew as mom and the food she provided my childhood tummy. Some comfort foods from my past, or dishes that I find endearing because they highlight some aspect of my mother's quirky attributes, or maybe just plain old childhood favorites.

But my mother knew a heck of a lot more about food than merely being the person who filled the bellies of three ungrateful eaters night after night. She was well read and had a sophisticated palate. So, until today none of the recipes I have presented really spoke to my mother's great love of exciting flavors. She was at the front end of American housewives branching out into classical French cooking styles at home. My mother had strong attachments to culinary cities like San Francisco and New Orleans. I remember my parents traveling to these cities and I remember my mother coming home and talking about the food.

I have a little story. Oh don’t look at me like that! You’ll like this story. It has a happy ending. I promise it’s about food too. Okay, I also promise it's brief. Now will you keep reading?

I have this friend (‘cuz this could never happen to me). He was in the middle of preparing a special dish. Let’s say it was Salmon Tartare inspired by his buddy Dash of Stash (who is coincidentally a buddy of mine as well). And for the sake of this story let’s say he’d gotten to a certain place in the preparation of this dish. He came across that moment. You know the moment I am talking about. We have all been there.

He had spent a considerable amount of time, energy, a pretty penny getting to this moment. As he leaned over his concoction of sweet salmon beautiness, the hills and crystal blue sky in view outside his kitchen window (okay, I am editorializing here somewhat). He took in the deeply savory aroma of his creation and he put a spoonful into his mouth. This is the moment of “taste”.

But something was wrong. You could see that by the look on his face. But he is an experienced cook. He knew this was no big deal. So he did not panic. This is why the phrase “season to taste” was invented. It’s that last shining moment when the cook gets to tweak his culinary baby into its peak performance.

He began to reach for the salt, because surely “season to taste” means salt and possibly pepper. Right?

I have so many little people to thank for this recipe!

I never could have done it were it not for the bold pioneers who went before me. Although the inspiration for this recipe may come from many, I have decided to take all the credit myself! And if I cry and sniffle a little whilst taking all the credit, people will cheer me on as an underdog. The little guy who beat "the man".

That's me– The Little Engine That Could!  I believe this is the way you get ahead in the world, n'est-ce pas?

Because truthfully I did have many an inspiration when I sat down and started putting this recipe together. One of the primary "little people" involved in this dish is a quaint cook named Daniel Boulud. Perhaps you've heard if him? He runs a charming little self-named cafe on an island somewhere. It's a bit off the beaten track on East 76th Street, I believe. If you ever find yourself in that part of the world you must pop in. Tell him Sup! sez Hi...