I don’t know if, dear reader, you have ever spooned back the velvet foam perched on top of a cappuccino to reveal the earth-colored, life-giving beverage below. (Any coffee fans out there? I happen to be a real snob.)
I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled the aroma of fresh sourdough bread baking after days of folding, ferment, and hour-counting, burgeoning into existence with a flavor demanding to be allies with brie, olive tapenade, or diced heirloom tomatoes with basil olive oil.
I don’t know if you tire of rhetorical questions, broad metaphorical allusions, niche food references, or our sociopolitical climate. But, treasured reader, I’m assuming you found your way here because you, too, are trying to make sense of it all.
In a world where all we can know for certain is that we know hardly anything at all, I am embarking on a journey of faith–faith in the goodness of people and the scrumptiousness of life. It is my goal to write faithfully to you for a year, elucidating my trials and tribulations, happy discoveries, questions, concerns, and the occasional feminist-language-soaked observations. If I can detail my experience seeking connection and meaning in a tumultuous brain, perhaps I can choose what pants to wear in the morning. Perhaps I am only kidding myself. Perhaps no pants is the best option. Most days I find this to be true.
I’m just a vaguely British-tinged American girl working out the boundaries of her womanhood (Are there any? Truly? If there are, what do they mean?!) and I’d love to be your friend. Come with me?
