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?