This evening, I stand in the kitchen and chop.
There are friends coming for dinner, and that makes me happy.
These days, food makes me happy, too.
There was a time in my life where food didn’t make me happy. In fact, I was downright afraid of it.
And that fear persisted long after I made my recovery from my eating disorder. It persisted so long that, one day, I decided to do something about it and just plain fall in love with food.
If love is an arrow, I wrested the bow out of Cupid’s hands, took aim and fired.
I didn’t miss.
In the absence of new photos on my reel lately, I’ve been scrolling through some of my older shots. I scroll all the way back to 2009, when my love-affair with food began, and I find lush, shockingly colorful images like this:
My mind takes me back to that season when a love of eating was new — a rich, wildly sensory experience — and it just plain makes me happy.
Because that was the year I taught myself where food comes from, if it’s raised right — out in the fields or the woods, in places where light is plentiful and the soil is rich:
I learned what it felt like to eat a blueberry or a blackberry straight from the brambles. I discovered scapes, and I met my all-time-favorite food, Chicken of the Woods — a wood mushroom that magically soaks up whatever you cook it in (hello, chardonnay!) and transforms the flavor into something unspeakably divine:
I learned to can and vacuum-seal and freeze and pickle. I took a job as a baker’s assistant, and I learned to make meltingly soft scones, dense crusty artisan breads full of nuts and berries, and my personal favorite, galettes:
I learned that food looks best in the sunlight:
Most of all, I smiled a lot, and laughed — right there in the presence of the food that used to scare me:
Today, I’m thinking back to those days and finding myself overwhelmed with gratitude…
I open the bottle of wine.
I let it breathe.
I toss the salad.
I wait for my friends to arrive. ❤