I want to be a food writer

I truly do. I’ve been in love with food for as long as I can remember. You could call it a love affair, but I think perhaps an “engagement” is more appropriate since I feel no guilt and I certainly don’t sneak around and hide my passion for all things nourriture. I’m in love with food in the best of senses, not obsessive or overindulgent, just purely in love. I love trying new tastes, challenging myself in the kitchen, and sharing the blessing of a well-cooked meal with friends. I feel that it’s time for this engagement to lead somewhere. I’m ready to make the commitment. Pee Wee’s taunts are bouncing around in my head, “So why don’t you marry it then?” Well maybe I will, darnit! Maybe I will marry food, because I love it, because there are thousands of new flavors to explore and compositions to try, because I want to spend the rest of my life using food as a means to have fellowship with others, to fill their bellies with warmth and contentment, and because it feels good going down, period.

So I want to be a food writer – Not a food critic nor a professional chef turned cookbook creator, just a writer of food. I want to write about why food is a common language between cultures, why food can heal a multitude of ailments, why food should sometimes be an event that is savored and lingered over. I will start here. I will pour my guts into this blog. I will write practice essays, and I will read a lot of food novels, cookbooks and memoirs. I will continue to talk about cooking and food in my everyday life and will try not to make people hate me because I won’t shut up about the life-changing cow brain tacos I had or the time I suddenly couldn’t get enough raw oysters after so many years of repulsion.

My first piece of creative writing about food was composed 10 years ago. It is a sloppily written “poem” more about paranoia than food, but I am sharing it with you anyways. Try not to laugh.

I Just Wanted to Eat Healthier

I swear there’s a bug in my salad
I saw it move
Tiny, speckled, black and white
Little bugger tried to hide
I saw him, though
Found him out
Under a damp romaine leaf
Next to a slice of red bell pepper
Dripping with poppy seed dressing
Waiting
Maybe it was just a poppy seed
A crack of fresh pepper
Or a piece of parmesan
A speck of dust on my contact lens
That moved when I stabbed at a cherry tomato
I swear it was some sort of creature
For when I peer out of windows at night
I know there is something peering back
Not my reflection
So clear and colored
Like a photograph taped to the glass
A living breathing snap-shot embodied…
Oh, I feel feverish
I’ve only hallucinated twice in my life
I just wanted to eat healthier
You know?
Can’t a girl eat healthy
Without things trying to attack her
Stalking her at night
Is it so much to ask
To let me eat a salad in peace?

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