For years now I have silently, and not so silently, protested blogs. I have partially blamed them for the degradation of our written language, and figured no one was really interested in reading what is essentially one's journal. Well, I was wrong. Recently a few things converged to weaken my resistance. Hence, this post.
I have spent the past eighteen years of my life in the restaurant industry, working both sides of the floor. The kitchen is, however, my most passionate, co-dependent, love/hate relationship of all the schizophrenic lovers in The Industry. I love playing with knives and fire; I love the adrenaline rush of The Rush; I love going home after twelve to sixteen hours of busting ass, uncorking a fine Belgian ale, and crumpling comatose on the bed for five hours, or so; and most of all, I LOVE FOOD!
There is a picture of me in my high-chair on my first birthday. My face is covered in barbecue sauce, and the pork rib bones are piled high for me to gnaw on. Later in my life, I couldn't have been any older than six, I was helping to make breakfast with my mother and step-dad. My job was to crack the eggs, and when it came my turn, I exclaimed to my father, "I'm going to be a professional egg cracker when I grow up!" Indeed I was.
I can recall a thousand memories throughout my thirty-three years on this planet that surround food~mostly, all in a good way.
For more than two decades I have consciously associated my reason for living with food, and eating--with gastronomical delights! And, for longer than that the food I've been so Hedonistically indulging in has really been hurting me.
I discovered in November exactly what my milk sensitivity was doing to me. But much more than that, I found out just what a wheat sensitivity was capable of. Since then I have modified my diet, with only minor diversions. My body has thanked me in so many ways, but now a deep seated depression has settled in about the loss of life long friends I've held with such succulent regard.
My prayer is for this blog to be catharsis, for the reader and the author.
I have spent the past eighteen years of my life in the restaurant industry, working both sides of the floor. The kitchen is, however, my most passionate, co-dependent, love/hate relationship of all the schizophrenic lovers in The Industry. I love playing with knives and fire; I love the adrenaline rush of The Rush; I love going home after twelve to sixteen hours of busting ass, uncorking a fine Belgian ale, and crumpling comatose on the bed for five hours, or so; and most of all, I LOVE FOOD!
There is a picture of me in my high-chair on my first birthday. My face is covered in barbecue sauce, and the pork rib bones are piled high for me to gnaw on. Later in my life, I couldn't have been any older than six, I was helping to make breakfast with my mother and step-dad. My job was to crack the eggs, and when it came my turn, I exclaimed to my father, "I'm going to be a professional egg cracker when I grow up!" Indeed I was.
I can recall a thousand memories throughout my thirty-three years on this planet that surround food~mostly, all in a good way.
For more than two decades I have consciously associated my reason for living with food, and eating--with gastronomical delights! And, for longer than that the food I've been so Hedonistically indulging in has really been hurting me.
I discovered in November exactly what my milk sensitivity was doing to me. But much more than that, I found out just what a wheat sensitivity was capable of. Since then I have modified my diet, with only minor diversions. My body has thanked me in so many ways, but now a deep seated depression has settled in about the loss of life long friends I've held with such succulent regard.
My prayer is for this blog to be catharsis, for the reader and the author.
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