It's perfect, absolutely perfect. Fabulous weather, blooming flowers, cheerful students and young families throwing frisbees all make for an absolutely perfect backdrop for a picnic on the Lawn.
The change in seasons reminds me that we cannot completely sever the fundamental and deeply fixed ties we have with food, however processed, packaged or artificial it may be. Even if weeks pass by when we subsist off Lean Cuisines, protein energy bars, Red Bull and sugar-filled lattes, somehow times of seasonal transition beckon us to examine our eating habits.
I am in my element in the kitchen. The rhythmic, soothing chopping sound of a sharp knife slicing through an onion, the exceptional, inimitable smell of garlic and olive oil melding together on the stove top, the feel of pasta's warm steam hitting my face when drained in a colander - these sensations are familiar and comforting to any seasoned cook.
Pickles and ice cream, goat cheese and Nutella on Wheat Thins, pretzels with crunchy Jif reduced-fat peanut butter - the cravings of a pregnant woman.
During the past few years, food preparation seems to have been reduced to mere numbers. The selling point no longer lies in the dish's unique blend of ingredients or impressive presentation but rather its ability to arise out of a small handful of ingredients in less time than it takes to place a telephone order for pizza delivery.
My food cravings often involve bittersweet chocolate ganache, sweet and perfectly ripened juicy fruit or a plate of nutty whole wheat pasta cooked al dente that is topped with a spicy-sweet homemade marinara sauce.
I always have preferred instantaneous, black-and-white feedback; confirmation that my efforts have enjoyed absolute success or utter failure; noteworthy victory or crushing defeat.
Overcrowded freezers and pink candy canes. For me, their special once-a-year appearance each December announces the presence of Christmas.
For most people, thinking about Thanksgiving conjures up images of traditional American fare beautifully arranged on fine china and memories of the unpleasant, overly full feelings following the extreme overindulgence of the day that only a nap seems to relieve.
I am a bad Southern girl. Any of my friends can attest to the paradox of my existence: I am from Alabama yet lack a thick accent; I live in Tuscaloosa, the home of the Crimson Tide and a stadium with a seating capacity of 92,138 but I really do not particularly enjoy watching football; I watch the Food Network constantly but absolutely must turn the television off when Paula Deen fills the screen.
