Dear Food,

Dear Food,

I can’t remember when we met, but it feels like you’ve always been a part of my life. I have very few memories of you from when I was young… I remember carrying cloves of garlic around in my pocket, microwaving eggs as an “experiment”, or getting my hair caught in the blender. But mostly you were just there, silently, without demands, taking care of me.  

I feel like we first discovered each other when I moved to New York at 16. Suddenly I found myself practically unsupervised. I was free to indulge in milkshakes the size of my head or to sit down to a dinner of a dozen warm and gooey Krispy Kremes. Our tryst was cheap, tawdry, indulgent, and reckless … I was only interested in the worst of what you had to offer.

A brief post-college trip to Europe made me think we could have more. Fresh and crispy baguettes sprinkled with thinly cut, but richly salty meats, gooey cheeses and light but flavorful butter… Or a cup of coffee with that sweet french milk… You clearly had complexities and delicacies I had never even dreamed of. But I guess I wasn’t ready for that.

Read more here.