Regular readers of Lauren Chapin&#8217;s restaurant reviews and food columns knew she grew up on a farm near Weston, where seasonal eating was simply a rhythm of life.</p><p>Her family, friends and co-workers will gather Saturday to celebrate her life and her contributions to food journalism.</p><p>A few days before her death last week at age 50 of a brain aneurysm, she shared with <em>Star</em> readers that the stuffed-and-mounted animal decor of a Smithville steakhouse didn&#8217;t bother her a bit. She was, after all, a proud member of a &#8220;hunter-gatherer clan.&#8221;</p><p>Like her grandmother, she raised chickens. Like her mother, she put up preserves. She was an accomplished cook and had begun to teach her daughters Brenna, 16, and Maren, 14, how to cook.</p><p>By contrast, I grew up in suburbia. Unlike her, I had never dug in the dirt for potatoes, hunted in the woods for morels, harvested grapes or considered lard an essential pantry staple.</p><p>Lauren&#8217;s keen and adventurous palate first made an impression on me during a wine class we attended many years ago. As we stuck our noses in our glasses, master sommelier Doug Frost coaxed us to come up with descriptive words or phrases to describe the liquid sensation.</p><p>&#8220;It smells like linseed oil,&#8221; Lauren blurted out.</p><p>&#8220;<em>When</em> have you smelled linseed oil?&#8221; I asked incredulously.</p><p>&#8220;My grandmother used linseed oil,&#8221; she replied.</p><p>Later we signed up for a basic foods preparation class at Johnson County Community College, where we learned how to prepare the classic sauces and convert recipes to banquet proportions. The lab part of the class required us to stand on our feet for hours and work faster than any home cook can imagine.</p><p>As the semester passed, Lauren continued to warily eye the gleaming, razor-sharp chef knives, while I was intimidated by the high-powered gas ovens, having cooked only on electric at that point. But, in the end, we were relieved to earn the highest grades in the class.</p><p>After Lauren became <em>The Star</em>&#8217;s restaurant critic in 2000, we always shared a room at the annual Association of Food Journalists&#8217; conferences, an avenue that continued to deepen our knowledge of food.</p><p>While in San Francisco, Lauren managed to snag us a late reservation at Alice Waters&#8217; Chez Panisse in Berkeley, and, to our surprise, Alice was eating with her daughter, Fanny, and a few of Fanny&#8217;s friends.</p><p>In Vancouver we hopped a bus and headed for Little India to eat kulfi and buy bangle bracelets.</p><p>In Puerto Rico we developed an abiding love for the mojito after touring Casa Bacardi. In Las Vegas, shortly after 9/11, we ignored warnings to report to the airport three hours early, opting instead to check out the restaurants at the Venetian and nearly missing our flight.</p><p>In Boston we spent a day eating our way through the Italian North End.</p><p>Just last month we shared designer margaritas and listened to music in Houston.</p><p>As news of her death spread, food friends from across the country called to offer condolences and share their own memories of Lauren. Kathleen Purvis, food editor of the <em>Charlotte Observer</em>, made me laugh through the tears of loss.</p><p>&#8220;Lauren announced at lunch that she was trying to find a moonshine source,&#8221; Kathleen recalled in an e-mail. &#8220;And one of the servers immediately hollered out that she had one. Proud moment for a Carolinian, I can tell you.&#8221;</p><p>That same curiosity for what made the food or drink of a particular region special also powered Lauren&#8217;s passion for all things local. From top-flight restaurants to mom-and-pop joints, she delighted in writing about farmer-chef relationships, and her disdain for instant mashed potatoes, limp lettuce or &#8220;prefab&#8221; food was something she never tried to hide.