The village is covered in a blanket of snow so thick you can build labyrinths from door to door, on bridleways and pathways, raising snow forts or small igloos on the way—little retreats in a rural wonderland. Inside, a fire crackles in a rustic terracotta stove, drawing pictures in the embers. These are some of the sounds and images that pop into my mind when I recall childhood in Romania. I was just six years old when I learned my first recipe. When I close my eyes, I am transported. The kitchen hums, clatters, breathes a potpourri of flavors. Like magic, I hear her calling: “Mihaela, come in here!” Hurray, I think. I get to help. “Would you like to learn how to cook?” my grandmother asks, in her somehow stern yet gentle voice. I don’t answer. I just stare. “Here,” she says, unfazed, handing me a parsnip. “Grate this …