I considered myself a food lover: a zealous, open-minded, and
studious consumer of food. My tastes ran the gamut from Chex Mix to
Chez Panisse, and I felt this to be charmingly, almost wittily,
indiscriminate of me. I read cookbooks, restaurant reviews, and food
writing. I cooked. I baked. I ate out. I would have, without
hesitation, claimed to be well versed, at the top of my game even, in
the Art of Eating.
I was, needless to say, a recent college graduate and an unfounded know-it-all. I look back on those days with an indulgent fondness for my younger self, and her survey-class approach to eating. There she is, I think in my memory, burning garlic and liking it. I smile, knowing that soon enough she will be introduced to someone so enamored of food that in his presence one begins to question their own passion for almost anything else. To my student’s eye, meeting Ryan was like being introduced to Edward Said after a steady diet of Cliffs Notes: there is, after all, much more to be found in the details.
My mother had a way of inventing traditions. “It’s Lizzie’s birthday!” she’d proclaim periodically and everyone in the family would don a party hat and sing happy birthday to one of our English Springer Spaniels. The announcement of the dog’s birth and subsequent celebration of it could occur at any time – on April 5, say, or December 12. It could happen twice a year or once every few years. But however haphazard, it became a tradition. 
Once upon a time, when my future husband and I had just started dating,
he called me one Saturday morning to see what I was up to. I was in the
car with my friend Phoebe and a trunk full of laundry.
I remember it like it was yesterday – laying in bed, completely entranced in the fiery excitement of it all. It was nothing I had ever experienced. My senses were heightened, an obsession had begun. 
She leans in toward me, her elbows on the counter. She is tall, blonde, and very slender. She’s wearing a tight black skirt and a white blouse open one button just past modest. A maid’s apron circles her waist. She begins to speak but I raise my hand and gesture for her to wait. I am listening to the teenage girl with the long legs and short shorts standing to the blonde’s left. She is a regular but, tonight, she wants more than usual.
