I have never paused to consider what I like, or why I like them. Some of the most difficult questions I face are about my preferences in food, books and life choices. Because I just seem to have drifted through life without paying attention to my own preferences.
I’m not a foodie. I eat to satiate hunger or boredom. And then forget about it. I am one of those people that forget to eat. I consume food mindlessly and hence, my issues with my weight. Sometimes I wish I actually enjoyed the calories I consume. Might make it easier to deal with the idea of the rolls I accumulate as a result.
As a direct consequence of my lack of enthusiasm for eating, I display equal apathy when it comes to cooking. I cook well (I’ve heard it enough times to actually believe it myself). But I know my cooking lacks the magic touch a foodie has. The extra oomph.
I am reminded of a day I spent in the Cotswolds in England. A day spent soaking in the sun in the charming English countryside.. the rolling hills, the lavender farms, the quaint little towns with charming little names. It was a blissful day but one that drained all of us of any energy we had. After a long day out, we were driving back to Birmingham in silence.. I was just happy to gaze at the towns and lands we were whizzing past, bathed in the yellow hues of a beautiful dusk. But my host had other plans. A jolly rotund man with a hearty laugh is how I’d describe him. He was family that I’d never met before. But a more welcoming, gracious host, I am yet to meet.
This host of mine decided to spend the entire drive, planning a menu for the feast he wanted to feed us that night. As I was the only one in the car in a non-comatose state, I was forced to supply the expected monosyllabic responses to his vocal deliberations. But, it turned out to be quite an interesting journey. Because, you see, he was a foodie of the first order. I saw his passion as he debated cuisines to satisfy our vegetarian palate and individual tastes. He launched in to vivid descriptions of cooking techniques, dived deep into the intricacies of recipes.. he berated against kitchen gadgets. “You need to touch the ingredients, massage the flavors out of them” he explained. And as I heard him describe the how flavors of dishes changed with the order of the ingredients and the cooking temperature, I knew that the meal we were going to have later that evening would be something special. I wasn’t disappointed. Simple dishes, spectacularly executed.. a feat that only a foodie can execute. He showed me that day that I’ll never be a foodie. I just can’t get that excited about food.
The words gorging, bingeing, gobbling, devouring would never be ones that I’d associate with food. I use them frequently, but only in reference to my reading habits. I’m a voracious reader. If I could consume books for calories, I'd gladly give up food. Why do I like to read? Why do I read so much? These are questions that I am almost scared to ask myself. For now, I just accept I love to read. I am deep reader. I never skim, I reread passages and chapters, I mull over the book. I read in solitude because I want to/need to lose myself when I read. I nudge, poke, urge and persuade the book to reveal its secrets to me. I drown in beautifully written words, emote appropriately to accurately conveyed emotions. I get tired of people very easily. But I don't tire of reading and books.
I’ve discovered that I lose myself in love the way I lose myself in books. I experience the same inexplicable urge to consume what’s offered to me and yearn for what’s not. I devour conversations, dissect them for subtext and hidden intentions. I fall in love like I imagine how I might die drowning. I fight it, fight it with all my might until it takes over my body... and pulls me down. It’s not a pretty sight - the refusal, the denial, the petulance. I don't like to relinquish control of my emotions. It's a good thing I don't fall in love easily or often. It affects me deeply and changes me poignantly. But I don't regret the few times it has happened.
I read somewhere that we truly fall in love only three times. The first love happens during high school typically. The idealistic love of the ignorant youth. The second love is the one that is meant to go wrong. The one where we decide we need to change ourselves to suit the moment. The one that teaches us who we are when we are in love and what we look for in who we are in love with. The third love is the one that is least expected. It hits us when we are mature. It is a love that comes with no expectations and no drama.
I like this idea. Because it shows an evolution in romance and expectations. I am skeptical of the "I married my high school sweetheart" relationships and I am envious of those that don't feel the need to find out if they actually have the best that life can offer.
I’m not a foodie. I eat to satiate hunger or boredom. And then forget about it. I am one of those people that forget to eat. I consume food mindlessly and hence, my issues with my weight. Sometimes I wish I actually enjoyed the calories I consume. Might make it easier to deal with the idea of the rolls I accumulate as a result.
As a direct consequence of my lack of enthusiasm for eating, I display equal apathy when it comes to cooking. I cook well (I’ve heard it enough times to actually believe it myself). But I know my cooking lacks the magic touch a foodie has. The extra oomph.
I am reminded of a day I spent in the Cotswolds in England. A day spent soaking in the sun in the charming English countryside.. the rolling hills, the lavender farms, the quaint little towns with charming little names. It was a blissful day but one that drained all of us of any energy we had. After a long day out, we were driving back to Birmingham in silence.. I was just happy to gaze at the towns and lands we were whizzing past, bathed in the yellow hues of a beautiful dusk. But my host had other plans. A jolly rotund man with a hearty laugh is how I’d describe him. He was family that I’d never met before. But a more welcoming, gracious host, I am yet to meet.
This host of mine decided to spend the entire drive, planning a menu for the feast he wanted to feed us that night. As I was the only one in the car in a non-comatose state, I was forced to supply the expected monosyllabic responses to his vocal deliberations. But, it turned out to be quite an interesting journey. Because, you see, he was a foodie of the first order. I saw his passion as he debated cuisines to satisfy our vegetarian palate and individual tastes. He launched in to vivid descriptions of cooking techniques, dived deep into the intricacies of recipes.. he berated against kitchen gadgets. “You need to touch the ingredients, massage the flavors out of them” he explained. And as I heard him describe the how flavors of dishes changed with the order of the ingredients and the cooking temperature, I knew that the meal we were going to have later that evening would be something special. I wasn’t disappointed. Simple dishes, spectacularly executed.. a feat that only a foodie can execute. He showed me that day that I’ll never be a foodie. I just can’t get that excited about food.
The words gorging, bingeing, gobbling, devouring would never be ones that I’d associate with food. I use them frequently, but only in reference to my reading habits. I’m a voracious reader. If I could consume books for calories, I'd gladly give up food. Why do I like to read? Why do I read so much? These are questions that I am almost scared to ask myself. For now, I just accept I love to read. I am deep reader. I never skim, I reread passages and chapters, I mull over the book. I read in solitude because I want to/need to lose myself when I read. I nudge, poke, urge and persuade the book to reveal its secrets to me. I drown in beautifully written words, emote appropriately to accurately conveyed emotions. I get tired of people very easily. But I don't tire of reading and books.
I’ve discovered that I lose myself in love the way I lose myself in books. I experience the same inexplicable urge to consume what’s offered to me and yearn for what’s not. I devour conversations, dissect them for subtext and hidden intentions. I fall in love like I imagine how I might die drowning. I fight it, fight it with all my might until it takes over my body... and pulls me down. It’s not a pretty sight - the refusal, the denial, the petulance. I don't like to relinquish control of my emotions. It's a good thing I don't fall in love easily or often. It affects me deeply and changes me poignantly. But I don't regret the few times it has happened.
I read somewhere that we truly fall in love only three times. The first love happens during high school typically. The idealistic love of the ignorant youth. The second love is the one that is meant to go wrong. The one where we decide we need to change ourselves to suit the moment. The one that teaches us who we are when we are in love and what we look for in who we are in love with. The third love is the one that is least expected. It hits us when we are mature. It is a love that comes with no expectations and no drama.
I like this idea. Because it shows an evolution in romance and expectations. I am skeptical of the "I married my high school sweetheart" relationships and I am envious of those that don't feel the need to find out if they actually have the best that life can offer.