After being asked in a free lance writing job posting why I love writing, talking about, and eating food, this is what I came up with. It is NOT going in the application. It is now a blog post/personal essay.
It’s 11pm and I want pasta (as I usually do during most waking hours). I am also two glasses of wine in and had previously had a very well-thought out salad for dinner about eight million years ago. So pasta is happening and nothing can stop me.
My ingredients: Half a red onion. Rigatoni. A head of garlic. A tube of tomato paste. Parmesan. And…Oh my gosh. We have bacon. Jackpot! That sh*t is going in the pan right now and it’s going to be what I saute my garlic and onions in, bitches! You know what that means–we gonna get arrabbiata rigatoni up in this hizz-ouse!
I am explaining this all to my boyfriend, James, who knows that he must sit there at our falling-apart kitchen island while garlic warms in the pan. He must sit and listen. Actively. He must nod occasionally as I explain why smashed garlic is better than sliced for this dish. He must try a bite of way too-warm sauce and make agreeing noises when I ask “Needs more salt, right?” He understands this is what he must do. And, if all goes well, in 20ish minutes James can go to town on a mixing bowl of spontaneous pasta with a bit of parsley, a dusting of red pepper flakes, and a generous handful of parmesan. With his mouth full, he’ll give me those “I don’t know how you do this but please never leave me” eyes. Because that’s who I am. A writer who loves to talk, cook, eat, (and write about) food.
I will rave about the perfect balance of heat and creaminess in the Korean fusion duck tacos to the food truck guy. I will swoon with the ice cream shop scooper about the fresh local herbs in the chocolate mint flavor. And I will lay awake at the end of the day still fuming about how a sushi roll with so much potential was drowned by too many sauces. I might as well have just drank a bottle of ketchup. Food is a treat and an experience. I look forward to a special meal all day and think about the menu for days prior to trying a new restaurant or a new recipe. I get so much joy just thinking about eating or preparing food!
Did I go to culinary school or spend years in a Tuscan kitchen to learn how much I love food? Nope. My food education consists of eating as much food as possible, Yelp, Bon Appetit videos and articles, but mostly conversations with my stepdad, Steve, at the stove. Steve is the family genius who asked “Grilled bacon wrapped prime rib instead of turkey this year for Thanksgiving?”
Part of the enjoyment of a dish for me is understanding what makes it so good so I can learn from it. My stepdad gets this. We can talk about a perfect taco al pastor for hours. We like to deconstruct each element to see how each ingredient works together. Food for us is like one of those crazy thousand-piece puzzles but instead of putting it together you’re pulling it apart. And you’re EATING it, which is way better.
Beyond just loving food, I love restaurants. I love how they can impart distinct feelings as much as a distinct cuisine. You can have the same caprese salad at two restaurants and come back having two completely different experiences, independent of the food itself. Food experiences can be artistic expression, a group activity, a solo adventure, something to learn from, something that you can remember for years to come. And for me, definitely something to talk (and write) about.
The other great, puzzley part of talking about food? I love trying to find the absolute perfect word to describe something. Is the pasta silky? Is it lucious? Does it bite? That’s the writer in me. Always trying to capture something that blows my mind in words, so I can hold it in my mind and look at it from all angles. The cooking process is so close to the writing process for me. A little of this. A little of that. What do I want the people I’m feeding (usually my boyfriend, James) to feel from this dish? I mean, yes, the answer is always love but you know what I mean. Garlic can lend a rich, nostalgic comforting feeling when pan fried with chicken. It can bite you when crushed into soup or pasta. Or it can be romantic, the head roasted with a sprig of rosemary and smeared onto fresh, toasty bread. Just like words, ingredients and cooking methods tell a story, take you on a journey when used with careful intention.
I guess you could say that my love of writing and my love of food are how I express myself artistically. But unlike writing, food can be a bit more of a joint creative endeavor. My perfect meal isn’t at a restaurant. It’s at home, with James at the broken-down kitchen island smiling as he chops up herbs as we talk about our days. It’s my friend Sylvia dicing onions and gossiping while I salt and pepper the chicken. It’s my stepdad and I staring at the open fridge and arguing about what else we could wrap in bacon for Thanksgiving this year. It’s cooking with music and experimentation and laughter and collaboration and a big glass of something in everyone’s hand. And the golden moment when everyone sits down and takes their first bites. And, of course, the groans of satisfaction that come right after.
So yes, food is art, food is a group activity, food is an experience. But when I am staring at the pantry at 11pm wondering what on earth I’m going to do with all that rigatoni, what food means to me boils down to one thing. And I just have to look over at James–already smiling, nodding, and pouring the wine–to know what it is.
It’s a garlicky, tomato-sauced, bacon-bit-studded love letter I want to write over and over and over again. With a bit of parsley, a dusting of red pepper flakes, and always a generous handful of parmesan.