A blog about deciding not to be someone with a strained relationship with food and cooking.
My name is N. and I live in Queens, New York, which means I am surrounded by SO MUCH FOOD. I love it, because a lot of it is delicious, but it also makes me anxious, because it highlights to me how illiterate I am when it comes to food. Growing up, my father and sister were the star chefs in my family. They speak an esoteric language of food that enables them to string together beautiful, poetic culinary sentences --- songs, you could even say --- without so much as looking at a phrasebook. As for me, I consume with relish the result of their poetic ramblings, but how it got there is all Greek to me. I have always sat and whined about not being one of those Greek-speaking-people, wah wah wah, I either have to copy awkwardly out of the phrasebook (blindly follow a recipe) or be reduced to communicating in savage grunts (pouring tomato paste directly on poorly-cooked noodles and eating it when no one is looking).
But recently I realized, hey, I've learned a lot of things from nothing before, what if I just... learned Greek? I mean, food and cooking? Why wallow in inferiority? So, this blog tracks my adventures in antiwallowing.