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I've been noticing that over the last few years, my private journal has become a recipe book. Discussions about people invariably become observations about food we saw, made or tasted.

It's funny: a friend of my sister's said recently that food writers are the new wedding planners. Everyone wants to be one. I can understand that. Sometimes I think I'm frighteningly one dimensional -- I'm consumed with food -- making it, eating it, reading about it, critiquing it, talking about it. At moments like these, I feel compelled to pull out the sewing machine and make duvet covers, or read my comic books to assure myself that I'm actually an interesting human being. If I put half as much effort into getting on the treadmill as I do being a dilettante, I'd have Gabrielle Reece's body. Except much, much shorter.

My great fears in life are to bore, or to be bored. I think that's an attempt at justifying my ADD.

Some very dear friends have urged me to embrace my inner food geek. I think to myself, "How many geeks should I embrace? I'm already the book and graphic novel nerd, the paper craft dork AND the sci-fi weenie. How much geekiness should one person expend (much less admit to having)?"

I worry about inflicting this culinary nerdiness on the world but most people coming here were invited to be here and they already know what a weirdo I am anyway (there's even a family discourse about our lack of normalcy and my weirdo status:

Therefore, with bold knife and fork, I plunge forward.

"There are two kinds of books about eating: those that try to imitate Brillat-Savarin’s, and those that try not to." - MFK Fisher, "Serve it Forth."

A Blithe Palate © 2005-2019 A Blithe Palate & Cathy Hong-Praslick. All rights reserved.