dearest reader, if i were to be candid with you, i have no idea how i wound up as a hopeless romantic. i have an inkling as to why, but it’s not relevant to this post.

over the past couple of years, i’ve taken great interest in food + cooking, the latter in part to my inclination to romanticize everything.

when i think about my relationship with food, i’m transported to the kitchen of my grandmother who had a gift for turning the most mundane of produce into heirloom family staples (i.e. fried eggplants & stuffed bell peppers).

as a child, i wasn’t aware of the level of thoughtfulness that precedes simplicity when preparing certain dishes, but, as an adult, i am most appreciative of the youthful palate she shaped because it helped me gain a sense of adventure and fondness for trying different cuisines.

hence, my Mediterranean breakfast isn’t unique to one locale, rather it’s the simplicity and profile of flavors that are birthed when devoured.

there’s something heavenly about that triage: the sweet ripeness from cherry tomatoes, paired with sharp red onions, both sweated out by coarse salt and diced cucumber to keep balance. it’s this holy medley i grew up eating during aprés church dinners that inspired me to chuck it on day old sourdough soaked in olive oil (EVOO), the best EVOO of course, and ground black pepper.

in an effort to make romance relevant to this conversation, i was fortunate to have a maman d’acceuil, or host mother, who shared the same guiding principle as my grandmother in cooking: simplicity. for me, romance is not solely defined by intimacy, but also a longing for a moment in time.

perhaps, i’m overthinking my breakfast situation when it’s merely a spoonful of salad atop bread, but what if it’s not? what if we thought about food the way we think about being in relationship? and, what if there really is more resonance to the saying “food as a love language“? that’s what i’m interested in exploring.

anyways, i hope this helps you in your eating journey.

love & madness,