To paraphrase some movie I’ve never seen: Blogs are like hemorrhoids. In the end, every asshole gets one.
I’ve been thinking long and hard about this First Post, this Great Manifesto of Coming-To-Be, that will explain exactly why the world needs another food blog. And, for weeks, I’ve been stymied. There are so many brilliant cooks, writers, and photographers out there, ready to scratch every possible culinary itch. And I’m just some punk kid with a spatula and a computer.
So I’ll try to make this brief.
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. It’s my dream. They say “write what you know,” and one of the things I know best is food.
I love to eat. I love it all–bright, earthy, rich, light, tangy, salty, sweet. I can talk endlessly about the textures of a dish, from silky to crunchy and everything in between. I adore herbs and spices dancing together in surprising ways. I dream about vegetables (no, seriously, I do). I don’t remember a time when my senses weren’t alive to the possibilities of food. And I love cooking almost as much as I love eating. The wild mix of alchemy and art that takes place in a kitchen is one of the most exciting things I can think of.
But food, for me, has baggage. In 2000, when I was just barely into my teens, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) and insulin resistance. I couldn’t metabolize sugar properly, so I craved it; I needed to lose weight, and instead I gained it. After years of struggle, I’m finally in a better place, thanks to new medication and excellent care. But for a long time I was conditioned to believe that food was the enemy, and that my love of it was harming me.
So this blog is a chronicle of my attempts to reconcile these two halves of the circle: the love of food and the need to keep it at bay. And so far, I’ve already come to one firm conclusion: Taste trumps everything. I want food that is vibrant, lush, full of nutrition and oomph. I want to be free in the kitchen to cook as the spirit moves me, to try new things, to surprise myself, to fail. I want recipes that are tissue-paper patterns, not fully-stitched garments. And I want to share the whole exhilarating, terrifying, belly-filling experience with you, my dear reader.
J. Alfred Prufrock asked, “Do I dare to eat a peach?” Well, I’m daring.