My mother makes gravlax once or twice a year, generally for a Jewish holiday. It sits in the fridge for a few days, wrapped up, covered in salt, sugar, and pepper, a powdery mixture that slowly breaks down until it’s in a liquid state. She rinses it off, and uses a Japanese ceramic knife to slice it thinly. She makes caramel-coloured, mustardy dill sauce to go with it. Eating it on some challah, with the sauce, and some greens or beets, is nothing short of amazing, for those with an inclination for sweet, salty, fatty salmon. My mother is a great cook, but I wouldn’t call her a chef. She always fed us well; seasonally, colourfully, healthfully. Meals were balanced and fresh. Repertoires were established so that, if my mother was busy (and she was often busy), really any of us could step in and get dinner, or Shabbos, on the table. I have my own limits, but safe to say that the kids in my family, especially the 4 girls, are great cooks. The similarities in our cooking – veggie-heavy, whole grains, colour – each in our own ways, clearly all come from my mother.
My sister slicing gravlax at home.
Anyway, my sister started calling herself a chef a number of years ago. “You’re not a chef!” I would say, “because you haven’t been to cooking school!” – which made sense to me – you finish culinary school, you’re a chef! – but was probably not a nice thing to say, and I knew she hated hearing it. Anyway, at some point during her years cooking, running a supper club, writing about food, and finally, opening a restaurant, our resistance to the title faded away. When I tell people about my sisters, I say, “one is a physicist, one is a physio, and one is a chef!” and I’m always so proud to say it.
One of the open-faced bagels featuring gravlax at my sister’s restaurant.
At her restaurant, my sister uses our mother’s gravlax recipe. I think my mother originally got the recipe from her friend Barbara, who got it from a friend of hers. I’ve never made it, but I’ve watched it be made, sliced, and I’ve obviously eaten it so many times. I wait for the extra fishy/salty/sweet/chewy bits from the ends, like some kind of grateful dog-person, just happy to be included. I have not yet found a reason to buy my very own entire side of salmon to cure, but maybe one day.
Bury The Fork 
You need a reason to try your mama’s recipe?
I think these days, you don’t need a qualification to do many things. You start practising and you do keep at it until suddenly people call you by that label.