Succulent, tantalizing, full-bodied, rare, steaming, zesty, all around heavenly and divine. It releases emotions I never thought were possible, occasionally resulting in a scream of satisfaction. On numerous occasions, I have planned my day around it. As a matter of fact, I have planned entire trips around it. I watch TV shows and read books about it, fantasizing the entire time. If you were to look at the pictures on my phone, you might call me shameful. Some may call it an addiction, some an affair. I refer to it as an intimate relationship. Yes, an intimate relationship, with food.

My relationship with food is comparable to the way a chef prepares a beautiful piece of meat. It has marinated over a long period of time, and been nurtured with refined spices and aromatics. I was born into a family that instilled a strong passion for food within me, beginning at a young age. My mother, a previous owner of a restaurant, my father, born and raised in Napa California, and my brother and sister, both incredible cooks with palates more complex than your average Rubix cube. If my family’s love for food wasn’t enough to spark my own, our dearest friends consisted of multiple talented chefs.

My first job was alongside one of our talented chef friends, catering private parties in Telluride, Colorado. I can vividly remember observing the way he worked, he would coax such incredible smells and tastes from such average ingredients, leaving me in complete awe. Unable to silence my love for food, I eventually began an apprenticeship working underneath two chefs at a local restaurant. My interactions with the food began, well smelly, very smelly and left me in tears. I was responsible for julienning every, single onion in the restaurant. Bags and bags of onions. In all honesty, I think I began to sweat onion juice, it was a joy showing up to class smelling accordingly, let me tell ya’. Eventually, I was promoted to working with dough and desserts. I would make the pizza dough for the wood-fired pizzas, and the airy focaccia bread for the tables, as well as the scrumptious after-dinner delights. The promotion left me smelling much more appealing, but took a toll on my waistline, putting it lightly. I held on to my position with the dough and desserts for the dinner shifts but eventually was able to work as more of a line cook for lunch rushes. The experience was beyond fulfilling, I learned technique, I learned appreciation and most importantly, I learned that I never want to clean another commercial kitchen floor ever again. The chef career proved to be more than I desired, and after graduating high school, I moved on from the restaurant world.

I moved on from the restaurant world, but not from my love for food, that has flourished and bloomed. Cooking is undoubtedly one of my most favorite activities to partake in.The joy I experience from creating a composed, delicious, meal, from ingredients that first appeared more random than a handful of jellybeans is difficult to put into words. I would like to imagine it is comparable to what Picasso felt while completing his compelling works, yes I did just compare myself to Picasso in a roundabout way, deal with it. I often enter the kitchen without a plan, similar to much of my life. I begin with observing for a moment, assessing the ingredients I have readily available. Usually picking up the produce, smelling, feeling and then creating a monstrous pile in the middle of the kitchen. Anyone that is the least bit “Type A” would watch the process in tears. Oh but not me, the act of piling is rather enjoyable for me. There is no method to my madness, but usually a beautiful, colorful, pile of endless opportunity is what I am left with.

I pour myself a drink, and turn on my creating music, usually Frank Sinatra, or my girl Aretha. I begin to boil my white sweet potatoes, grown from a local farmer, the bubbles rise to the top of the pan. My chopping skills are summoned from my previous onion days, chopping garlic, onions and cilantro as fast as my hand-eye coordination allows, bits and pieces flying everywhere. The fresh Ahi Tuna, bright red in color, awaits me, almost screaming for love. I drizzle olive oil, and the remnants of my choppings (copywriting that word), I spot a lime, a last minute addition. I allow all of that love to marinate. I listen to the rumbles of my tummy and try to communicate,

“What else do you want, my friend?”

My pile reveals kale and collard greens straight from the garden. While I rinse the dirt from my leaves I see the carrots and the pineapple sitting so peacefully together, a power couple needed for my salad. Crunch, who doesn’t love crunch in their salad? Pumpkin seeds the perfect crunchy morsel. I throw everything for my salad in the bowl, the colors bounce off of each other like a bright summer’s day. Meanwhile, I hear the roar of my boiling potatoes, a fork test proves that they are ready for their destiny, a potato salad. I set them aside to cool after a freezing rinse under the sink. I spot more green, celery stalks, and fresh thyme from the garden. Bingo. They are immediately chopped and begin to party with my potatoes. I reach for the apple cider vinegar to create a needed zing for my potatoes, salt and pepper to taste. I heat a pan on the open flame, filled with a touch of olive oil from my father’s old stomping grounds. The tuna kisses the heat of the pan, oil hisses as it sears to golden perfection. I look at my salad. It needs something, but what? Spice, always a need for spice in my mouth. I reach for paprika a surefire way to add a kick, honey, to maintain a happy balance, lemon for a tang, and a touch of greek yogurt to tie it all together. My tuna! It is seared to perfection, still red and beautiful on the inside, it is time.

Who knew a simple white plate could allow for so many possibilities? I compile my components, and begin to “Picasso.” The star, the tuna, seared and piping hot is situated first, then my colorful salad, coated lightly in my dressing. The potato salad, speckled with hints of thyme and celery falls effortlessly onto the plate. Remaining cilantro, and garlic that I hadn’t used on my tuna has been sitting in a shallow bit of olive oil and lime juice, the combination is similar to a nectar of the gods, it blankets my tuna. A half of lime shouts to be included, I situate it next to my tuna. The meal is complete accompanied with a glass of wine that I had been sipping throughout the process. I seat myself at the table, my creation in front of me, I toast first to God for providing the food, the fish for its life, then to the ground for growing, finishing with good health. I dig in, first a bite of each component, smiling with every chew. Then I move on to a bite with a touch of everything, an entirely new experience. Flavors that present themselves early dance on my tongue, then slowly dissipate as the new flavors emerge. I eat slowly, enjoying, allowing the food be appreciated as art and love, not fuel. I finish the way I began, a white plate. Content.

I live to eat and cook another day.