The Founding

University has proven challenging and lonely for me, and as challenging moments in our lives allow us to discover what we are (or are not) made of I have discovered that University has rendered me rather fat and gluttonous as I am prone to gorging myself on all kinds of luxurious foods in times of stress. Though this may seem like a cry for pity, I assure you I'm alluding to a magnificent sort of epiphany. For while I have struggled toward my degree in Anthropology and have been significantly humbled by the demands of academia, I have discovered that there is always one thing that I will excel in, and that is eating well.

Defining what it is to eat well is a sensitive topic, for it is clear by the vast range of retaurants in our cities that good food means many different things to many different people. If the variety of restaurants in either San Francisco or Los Angeles was an indication of healthy diversity of palates, I might be a content foodie, but instead I find that too many "foodies" have developed their tastes unintelligently, crowding the snootiest of restaurants to dine on oddly paired melanges of trendy ingredients.

Now, if the above rant hasn't driven you away, I don't know what will. Thus if you have read this far, I hope you will continue to join me in the discussion on what it means to love good food. I have only met a few people that do not "love food" and after close inspection I have come to the conclusion that those people are semi-robots, deriving sustenance from electrical outlets and the occasional box of Kraft macaroni.

To me, loving food is something of a desperation. This strong, basal desire is sharpened into skill through years of discrimination and deep appreciation. It is the drive that allows oneself to go through hours of L.A. traffic to get to the freshest, and tastiest seafood in all of Southern California (Royal Capital Seafood, Garden Grove). To most people, such behavior is clearly insane, which is why I rejoice upon finding a kindred spirit. My friend Shiri, for example, travels to Chicago solely to dine on some of this nation's choicest dining establishments. My Auntie Zeny, perhaps the first foodie influence in my life, used to take me and my family on a four hour drive across the border to Puerto Nuevo, Mexico where each of us would consume pina coladas, margaritas, and pounds of broiled pacific lobsters that were piled high in the center of the table. I still remember the morning I woke up rather sick, hungover perhaps, from the pina coladas that accompanied those sweet, buttery nuggets of lobster. I think I was about six. Thus, my beginnings as a foodie stretch beyond my memory.

So, in the case of food at least, my scrutiny and sensitivity to the tiniest of nuances has served me well, allowing me to eat so heartily as to be considered a glutton. How the joy of eating could ever be considered a sin is incomprehensible to me, unless one is not sharing that joy with others. Nonetheless, if my love of food has me destined for the underworld at least I can be certain that I will be in the good company of other food sensualists. I can see us now, recalling memories of the best meals of our lives among the jumping flames.