This photograph was taken after last week’s storm. The thing was ginormous, as the kids say, and as I now say, but I didn’t choose to show it the day I took its picture. Because I took no photos during my short fast walk today, I thought I’d share it.
It has an other-worldly look, seems like it should be edible, and yet is a bit squeegly repulsive. I wonder if it actually is edible. Think I’d have to be pretty hungry.
Which brings me to wonder how I became such a “foodie.” As a child, eating was a bother; I had negative interest, with only a few notable exceptions (chocolate, artichokes, bacon, lobster? Tref always has its appeal!) And here I am now, a self-professed lover of food, of cooking, of baking…I don’t watch the food channels on TV, though; I don’t have an enormous or eclectic collection of cookbooks or recipes; and I don’t consider myself a superior cook. There are some things I do well, there are many I don’t want to bother with; I’m not an expert at anything; I don’t whip up new concoctions nor have regular feasts for 50; I have no specialties; I certainly don’t make everything “from scratch;” and there are many days I’m fine with eating out. Or even some packaged pasta (guilt: I adore Stouffer’s mac and cheese. So there.)
But I really still enjoy eating and cooking and the occasional invention and making a simple meal for people. I would be sad if I could no longer do that. Rye bread with caraway is wonderful, by the way. Would it be even better if I baked it myself?