Perhaps it began in utero, when my mother ate tomatoes by the bushel during her pregnancy, believing it’d lead to a smarter child.
A few years ago, I didn’t understand this. The mere words “free food” were enough to motivate me to scale mountains. I signed up for a two-week sleepaway chemistry camp junior year of high school purely because the itinerary advertised restaurant outings. I spent my interview rhapsodizing about Stephen Hawking and the theory of relativity, mainly because I couldn’t say much about chemistry. I figured physics would be a good stand-in.
No meal, no matter how beautifully plated (especially if it’s beautifully plated), is complete without an extensive photo shoot. I’ve been known to sharply reprimand errant dining partners who ruin the perfect photo of a chocolate-chip-heaped cannoli.
A lot of my plans are like this. Forging ahead in chaos.
“I’m failing so hard,” I said to my better half who was obediently stirring the green beans. He said something about being confident in my abilities.