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Taste of a Better Life

I was in Ann Arbor, Michigan when everything changed. It was October, and I was like the trees of the college town—tall, proud and newly painted with the vibrant colors of transformation. I was a sight to behold—a woman with a heavy backpack and camera around her neck—proud, energized, and flush with the bright hues of an internal revolution. I glowed with happiness as the passing days brought life-altering change. I gave things up. I invited change. I stopped wasting time. I found a new way of writing. I found a new kind of love. I felt like a long-limbed Maple in full flush.

As pieces of my former-self scattered with the altering winds of November, I embraced the conversion. I begged for change. But by the end of December, I was stripped bare of all that I once was. I was as simple as a line drawing of a tree on a snowy hill.

In the austere simplicity of my new life, I realized I needed to live simply. Like a tree, all that I truly needed was food, water, and the all-powerful light from above. Without these things, I realized I could not thrive. And yet–before the Fall of change—I was living life on much less. Food, wine, and work was all that sustained me. Water and light were an occasional luxury. My roots were never tended.

But now, all of that has changed.

The most significant thing is how much light I have in my life now. And water. For what may be the first time, I seek out nourishment. Food fulfills me, rather than covers or mutes deeper problems. I’ve turned away from the numbing comforts of wine and cocktails and embraced being in the moment fully. I dedicate myself to plugging in, not checking out. I find inspiration everywhere. Now, I shy away from my blog’s stats page and listen to the analytics of my muses.

According to the voices of inspiration, it’s time I start writing about chocolate. Continue reading “Taste of a Better Life”

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Defining Quality, a Food Blogger’s Equation

lexicon of food blogging
*a typographic representation of a simple equation

Though I hate algebra and loathe the fact that I still can’t quite recall the entirety of my multiplications table, equations are my way of making sense of incredibly complex situations. It all started when I was a kid trying to make sense of a chaotic childhood. Equations like mom + dad + siblings = family worked for me. The simplicity of equations helped me skip the confusing parts (arguments, lack of money, bills not getting paid, neglect).

They say that the adult human mind naturally organizes knowledge of the world into systems—or, in my case, basic equations—in order to understand life’s lexicon. Equation-based thinking can be a good thing—until you stop being mindful of the true value of things.

Take for example, this equation:

Food Woolf = Food Blog

Food Blogs ≠ Food Woolf

(Food Woolf is a food blog.  Not every food blog is Food Woolf.)

Yeah, I know. That equation is obvious. But you’ll have to be patient with me on this. Because what I’m about to talk about does get a little complicated.

I know that all food blogs are not built to be the same. Yet, there are times when I think we all forget that other blogs aren’t built like ours. We get frustrated. We might even get petty. And sometimes, we can even take other people’s words and acts personally because they don’t share our point of view.

I am a writer and a restaurant professional. I view the world with a very particular point of view. So when I read other people’s blogs, I perceive the work from the perspective of a writer and a restaurant professional. I’m aware that there are plenty of blogs out there that aren’t looking to win any literary awards. And yet, sometimes—when I’m not at my best–I forget that not everyone has the same goals as I do.

Rather than enjoy a blog for what it is, I can get lost in my internal editor mode. I get irritated by things like ALL CAPS rants, two paragraph posts, and words like yummy, drool, and delicious. Thin stories, laundry list posts, and paragraphs filled with empty descriptions can leave me feeling more than unsatisfied. On bad days, I can get judgmental and angry.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Continue reading “Defining Quality, a Food Blogger’s Equation”

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Kitchen Love Letters

A wonderful thing happened. My husband started cooking.

The change came about a month ago. It began with breakfast. While I dressed for work he’d slip into the kitchen and brew a pot of our favorite organic coffee and construct a delicate egg white omelet with spinach and goat cheese. When I emerged from the whir of my early morning rituals—hair drying, make up application, multiple outfit changes—I’d find a folded cloth napkin, a perfectly doctored coffee, and a plate of comforting food waiting for me. On mornings when our window of time together was brief, he’d surprise me with a thick slice of bread dripping with melted butter and apricot jelly. I barely had time to notice he had perfected the careful balance of sweet and savory in the fruit smoothies he’d slip to me as I headed out the door.

I started to see a pattern of culinary devotion as he began adding lunches to his repertoire. Rather than visit our usual neighborhood lunch spot, he’d serve us decadent open-faced turkey burgers he grilled that were draped in a blanket of melted cheese or a thick slice of over-ripe persimmon. He’d peel an orange and have it waiting for us when we found ourselves at that inevitable point of the meal when we started to crave something sweet.

Then came dinners. I marveled at his grilled fish on a bed of Israeli couscous with thinly sliced lemons. On another night, he sautéed perfect squares of halibut with a spiced rub and a spicy yogurt sauce with fresh mint. Then there was the time he roasted a whole bird he bought at the farmers market with muddled fennel seeds and thyme.

After those meals his kisses never tasted sweeter.

With my husband at the helm of our kitchen, I’ve begun to relish the stacks of dirty mixing bowls or the skillet that needs a good soak. Because with every food-stained plate comes a piece of the story of what he learned in the kitchen.

I didn’t think it was possible, but every culinary tale makes me love him a little more. Continue reading “Kitchen Love Letters”