Someone Else’s Eyes: My Debt to Oliver Sacks
I remember the first time I was introduced to Oliver Sacks. At the time, I was still well on my way to pursuing a career in music, set on the idea that music, and not science, would be my passion.
I remember the first time I was introduced to Oliver Sacks. At the time, I was still well on my way to pursuing a career in music, set on the idea that music, and not science, would be my passion.
In the rest of the house, the noise of the party is deafening: the clink of glasses, the sizzle of burgers on the grill, the excited cries of relatives reunited after long absences. But in the bright light of the kitchen, Mark is talking to me without sound. He presses his right hand over his left then moves up its length, separating his thumb from the rest of his fingers as he goes replicating the open and shut motions of a jaw. “This is the sign for cancer,” he says.
There’s no one moment I remember distinctly when I realized my love for cooking. Cooking has been part of me for as long as I can remember: recipes have long since been abandoned for the spontaneity of Thursday night creations. Tuesdays have become an excuse to make cookies. For my family, like for many, the kitchen was the center of our house. Maybe my love of cooking came early, sitting on the floor in my parent’s apartment banging …