I’m a girl who likes to eat. If my birth weight isn’t proof enough (9+ pounds), every single picture my parents took to capture my childhood involves me shoveling something into my mouth. There’s the time I stole another baby’s bottle, the time I ate dirt from a planter, the time I started eating my birthday cake with my hands while the candles were still burning bright. If it was within my arm’s length, you could guarantee it would end up in my mouth.
Though my tastes have evolved (barely) with time, I’m still a girl who likes to eat. A friend and I were having lunch the other day, and she referenced food as the cornerstone of my life. I agreed with her sentiment, but we differed on the definition. It’s not the act of eating I enjoy so much as the experience. The perfect meal loses some of its glory and appreciation if you eat it without context. The act of eating macaroons is very different from the experience of eating macaroons from M Ladurée’s original bakery in Paris, France. The experience is what adds flavor. And, let me tell you, I love flavor.