I am a writer who writes about food and life and where the two meet. The life part should be obvious. As for food, writing about food was, for me (pardon the expression), a chicken and egg story.
Although I’m not crazy about the word “obsessive” because of the image it conjures of a woman so off-balance she’s capable of plunging a bunny into a pot of boiling water (something I would do only if a recipe demanded it), I am willing to concede that my relationship to food is, at times, a bit excessive. I think about food even when I’m not hungry, cook food when I have no intention of eating it, and buy food when I have no plans to cook—or even a kitchen to cook in. I cook when I’m happy. Cook when I’m sad. I cook when I’m bored and when I’m late on a deadline. I cook when I’m in love or only wish I were. My thoughts and feelings about food are the closest thing I have to religion, to politics, to art appreciation. Food, in essence, is what I believe in. What else am I supposed to write about?