Food.
As this cursor prompts me to expand on my attempt at emphasis, I realise there really is no need.
For me.
The word instantly recalls one happy association after another (if I can say so, it's because my tummy seems to be remarkably resilient, for all I eat) into an amalgam of the single happy schema in my head that is Food. And yes, I Will treat it as a proper noun for the rest of this piece.
For the discerning reader however, it is justified to wonder what all the hullaballoo is about.
How can you look at this and not be inspired? Or, wishing you had this, at the very least.
Well you could, but then this blog wouldn't be your cup of tea. Pun intended.
This isn't a food blog. I'm no high flying food critic (I like my crepes messy, thank you very much.), nor am I formally trained in the culinary arts whatsoever. Heck, I haven't even been to a one hatted restaurant.
I'm just a girl who loves her food. Cooking it, baking it, sharing it, dressing it up, fretting over it, creating memories around it, it's one of the things I do best.
So what is this, then?
This is just a journey. Just like Ibn Battuta thought it wise to weave the marvels of the east into page after page of parchment, and like Wordsworth chose to describe the Daffodils, some things are worth articulating simply because of what they are. They move you, frustrate you, flummox you, amaze you, redeem you, heal you.
Yesterday I got off the phone in tears, and walked straight into the kitchen.
An hour later, the tears were replaced by a smile, and hands holding warm, brown cupcakes. They were so cute I wanted to scream! And it helped that they didn't taste half bad.
That's what food does to me.
And I have a bit of a dream. A warm, sunny street in a happy town. A corner shop. Red brick walls, wooden floors. The room full of round tables, with pretty lace covers. Lots of flowers. And the smell of fresh bread and coffee warming you like sunshine on your bare shoulders. With children, laughter, and perhaps the occasional grimace from a young one first tasting cinnamon.
A bakery, a coffee shop, the place where you'd buy apple pie for your daughter coming home from college, where you'd go to for gastronomical comfort after hard day, or where you'd pop in, just because it looked nice.
I don't know when or how I'll get there, I'm majoring in Economics, and have big plans (this is one of many). It may be ten years, or twenty, or thirty. But just like Ibn Battuta and Wordsworth knew, sometimes the journey is more important than getting there.
After yesterday, I realised that an overwhelmingly large number of the moments in my life that I hold dearest have to do with food. I don't keep a diary, so my memory is all I have to remember them.
And of course the work of some very shutter happy friends *thankgodforyou*
But I want to be able to look back in fifteen years and see how many times I under baked the cookies before they came out right. Or what we ate when I took my friends out for dinner from my first paycheck. How long it took me to understand how to make the perfect meringue. Or what the best place for chaat in Delhi really is. And who I was with, when I discovered it.
Just like anyone who's ever written a memoir would be able to.
Unlike Battuta though, I can do it with pictures! AND in pretty much whatever font I want. Take THAT, Old man.
Also, I don't have a beard.
Just sayin'
Inspiration is everywhere, and sometimes something as ordinary as cooking dinner for the fam and friends get's you ticking unlike anything else. Some things are just worth writing about.
:)
As this cursor prompts me to expand on my attempt at emphasis, I realise there really is no need.
For me.
The word instantly recalls one happy association after another (if I can say so, it's because my tummy seems to be remarkably resilient, for all I eat) into an amalgam of the single happy schema in my head that is Food. And yes, I Will treat it as a proper noun for the rest of this piece.
For the discerning reader however, it is justified to wonder what all the hullaballoo is about.
How can you look at this and not be inspired? Or, wishing you had this, at the very least.
Well you could, but then this blog wouldn't be your cup of tea. Pun intended.
This isn't a food blog. I'm no high flying food critic (I like my crepes messy, thank you very much.), nor am I formally trained in the culinary arts whatsoever. Heck, I haven't even been to a one hatted restaurant.
I'm just a girl who loves her food. Cooking it, baking it, sharing it, dressing it up, fretting over it, creating memories around it, it's one of the things I do best.
So what is this, then?
This is just a journey. Just like Ibn Battuta thought it wise to weave the marvels of the east into page after page of parchment, and like Wordsworth chose to describe the Daffodils, some things are worth articulating simply because of what they are. They move you, frustrate you, flummox you, amaze you, redeem you, heal you.
Yesterday I got off the phone in tears, and walked straight into the kitchen.
An hour later, the tears were replaced by a smile, and hands holding warm, brown cupcakes. They were so cute I wanted to scream! And it helped that they didn't taste half bad.
That's what food does to me.
And I have a bit of a dream. A warm, sunny street in a happy town. A corner shop. Red brick walls, wooden floors. The room full of round tables, with pretty lace covers. Lots of flowers. And the smell of fresh bread and coffee warming you like sunshine on your bare shoulders. With children, laughter, and perhaps the occasional grimace from a young one first tasting cinnamon.
A bakery, a coffee shop, the place where you'd buy apple pie for your daughter coming home from college, where you'd go to for gastronomical comfort after hard day, or where you'd pop in, just because it looked nice.
I don't know when or how I'll get there, I'm majoring in Economics, and have big plans (this is one of many). It may be ten years, or twenty, or thirty. But just like Ibn Battuta and Wordsworth knew, sometimes the journey is more important than getting there.
After yesterday, I realised that an overwhelmingly large number of the moments in my life that I hold dearest have to do with food. I don't keep a diary, so my memory is all I have to remember them.
And of course the work of some very shutter happy friends *thankgodforyou*
But I want to be able to look back in fifteen years and see how many times I under baked the cookies before they came out right. Or what we ate when I took my friends out for dinner from my first paycheck. How long it took me to understand how to make the perfect meringue. Or what the best place for chaat in Delhi really is. And who I was with, when I discovered it.
Just like anyone who's ever written a memoir would be able to.
Unlike Battuta though, I can do it with pictures! AND in pretty much whatever font I want. Take THAT, Old man.
Also, I don't have a beard.
Just sayin'
 |
| Him. |
 |
| Meeeee! |
Inspiration is everywhere, and sometimes something as ordinary as cooking dinner for the fam and friends get's you ticking unlike anything else. Some things are just worth writing about.
:)
Way to go :) I caught glimpses of you behind the words, and loved the pictures at the end.
ReplyDelete"I'm just a girl who loves her food. Cooking it, baking it, sharing it, dressing it up, fretting over it, creating memories around it, it's one of the things I do best."
That you are, my friend.