I take my own screw-ups far too seriously. When I’m wrong or in the wrong, the inner marshmallow plumes: I’m stripped of indifference, I apologize profusely, I want to right everything at once and mellow tempers and for the remainder of the day I dwell on the error even if it was minute & forgotten by the other party in five seconds. I suppose, then, that writing is partway so appealing because of the delete button. Retry. The writing won’t hold a grudge. This lentil recipe, too. Forgiveness between cook & cuisine is valuable like forgiveness between humans.
I am an intensely ritualistic person. Ritual equals spiritual. I run most efficiently with certain groundings behind me. It’s more valuable than any gold, any material item, any fracture of monetary sacrifice. Breakfast is one of those rituals. A good morning kiss. Caffeine-less caffeine. A warm hug to my tummy. Continue reading “avocado toast | coarse salt + dill + poached egg”
June is arrived and is mangling my desire to travel further than five steps from my front door (if I even make it that far). Though I’ve called Florida home since birth, the soupy summer hangs foremost on my list of “Things I Dread Throughout the Year” and coping with the honey-textured air & intense sunlight is a continual losing battle. I even sweat half of my body fluid out whilst doing yoga on my bedroom floor, wind up slipping out of bakasana and shaking the entire building with my unintentional bodyslam. Welcome to Florida. There’s no escaping the swirling humidity here. Continue reading “mango stir fry + shrimp & sausage”
I’m a graduate? It seems so. Four years of college accumulates on a piece of paper I will receive in a week or so. I don’t feel much different, aside from the minutes following my final submission. I exhaled so deeply a hum vibrated from my throat. Continue reading “summer vegetarian | potato tacos + cilantro-lime slaw & sweet lime vinaigrette”
I only recently wrangled up a fondness for beer. The hoppy, malty, fizz-and-pop delight seems to deter many a person my age, and a taste is only acquired after long experimentation and a sort of “aha” moment in which one realizes shit, this is actually not bad. Going to Europe and tasting beer several levels above the watery infraction that is Bud Light helped me acquire a taste for the beverage. A good quality type of anything can change someone’s opinion of a whole, be it drinks, jeans, books, colors, or human beings. Continue reading “Beer bread: honey + cheddar”
November crept up and smacked my head from behind. The door to 2015 is fast closing and someone cracked open the window leading to the path of 2016. I’m rather startled by this rapid passing of time, flitting off the ticking clock like dust mites. Who have I been in 2015? A stranger, mostly. Yet, at the same time, a familiar friend. Continue reading “November supper: white cheddar pumpkin shells + prosciutto + herbed mushroom saute”
One year. 365 days. How odd and delightful. I have a penchant for missing important dates which don’t involve an actual human’s milestone, and I certainly did forget with regards to Venturing East’s first birthday in September. This blog has remained a steady background singer in the soundtrack of my life. As I nourish it with words and pictures, it serves as a sort of Miracle-Gro for my heart. Continue reading “Venturing East for 1 year | Flaky + savory pumpkin rosemary biscuits”
I allude to the future frequently on Venturing East. Perhaps the rambles of then are my way of cementing the future’s presence, and assuring myself that I am approaching one that won’t like a black hole stretch me thin & gulp me behind its stark black fangs. Writing has always been my way of adding permanence to the abstract. Once in word form, a concept or a wish exits dormancy. Words are a knight’s shield and a king’s royal orders. Continue reading “Summer Squash & Vine Tomato Galette + Rosemary Pea Pesto”
Storms, Mother Nature’s premier musketeer, are a part of life, like bread and bugs and the hanging stench of trash outside a dumpster. To take it a step further, I’d argue that the storm is life itself. Your life is your Storm.
I don’t claim to be an expert on hosting, or laying a table, or homemaking in general. But as with any art, a delicate eye and a willingness to practice until your hands and soul are raw yields improvement. So I started small with supper audienced by merely my mom and myself, as good a company as I need.