I like food, who doesn't. I cook, I experiment and I like my taste buds to dance with new flavors and combinations. When Im sad I light a flame under a pan and start with the rarest olive oil (Archer Farms Target brand) and allow my knife to guide me through fresh vegetables, tart citrus and zesty herbs. I cook with heart given to me from my mother whom cooked for five of us. She is great a brillant woman who understands one thing which we will discuss later. My mother also whistled soft melodies as she stirred away at a boiling pot adding small dashes of salt and light grinds of pepper. I get a certain fulfillment and also underlining boredom from food. I like trying new, I keep my favorites but mostly I can taste a passionate chefs ability to create awesomeness.
Im hungry. All I have to do is exit my door and theres a billion choices right outside. Every flavor, every spice and every area of diversity has a small row of blocks dedicated to its authenticity. Its a food mecca waiting to give you a mouth orgasm, you just have to find it and keep coming back for more. Unfortunately Im under-impressed and highly confident that I can bring more love and excitement to most meals I have tried yet so far and then I came across the meal that changed everything.
Tikka Masala, the deal breaker. The heartbreaker, the meal that was so good I would have licked the bowl if I wasn't in public. My boyfriend and I didn't speak a word as I sopped the tomato gravy goodness, heavily spiced, perfectly seasoned traditional Indian dish down. It spoke to my soul while slowing my heart rate and making me weak in the knees. I fell in love and finally felt the passion from the chef. Allow me to also mention that the perfectly prepared, succulent (yes I said succulent) chicken was so good I unofficially rejoined the clean plate club. Living on an island of fakers and pretenders, this was a pleasant change and once again relit the flame under my ass that passionate food still does exist. My mother was in the kitchen and I could taste it. Possibly she cursed me because now I have this damned ability to taste a secret ingredient, a ingredient so rare even Donald fucking Trump couldn't put a price on because its something you just cant buy. Its the day old saying that "someone must have put there foot in this dish." I can taste it even after being a smoker even after tasting the spiciest of foods.
Its love. You can't buy it nor can one fake it. Its there or its not. Anyone can make a sandwich, and until you actually enjoy making that sandwich it will simply fall flat and the next sandwich maker will prevail. It speaks to you in ways that make you come back and then it slightly makes you shed a tear that someone still cares. Cares about food not to mass produce it but to love it (however they don't like you they just like the ingredient.). I will rant for days but I come from place that is now pissed because I taste it in everything now. Its love, shown to me from a woman that simply loves to fill the bellies of those she would take bullets for.
It's powerful and it makes people keep eating and it also allows people to justify a 400.00 dollar tab. We all need to eat and once we have tasted love its hard to compare and its hard to go back if its not there unless a lot of butter is involved and then we are just fucked.
So put down those Mcdonalds fries and grab a knife and start getting the ones you love with you in the kitchen. Magical mistakes happen and for any other reason it will make you turn the tube off and enjoy a meal you prepared..together.
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