I like food.

No, I don’t like food, I like food. When most people are planning their weekends or what they’re going to wear – I’m probably thinking about what temperature to roll my brioche dough out at or what flavor would go best with ginger in an ice cream (Answers: About 68 degrees. And fennel.) . That’s not to say I think I’m better or worse than anyone, simply that food is also my hobby and one of my favorite artforms.

When I think about my history, the places I’ve lived and been, I think about them in terms of food. Recipes, street food, middle school square pizza. Food is beyond nourishment, it is the way we communicate culture, breathe in and breathe it out. It is saimin and fresh papaya in Hawaii, roadside stands of peaches & cream sweet corn in Iowa. It tells me the seasons, from glutting myself on asparagus in the spring to the mountains of winter squash now available. It’s Cadbury creme eggs at Easter and peppermint ice cream at Christmas. Sometimes, it’s even bad coffee and late-night breakfast at a 24-hour diner.

So when a potential first date tells me that their favorite foods are “Mexican and pizza.” forgive me if I don’t give them much of a chance. I can already tell that we’re not speaking the same language.

That being said, I made moules-frites tonight – a classic Belgian dish of steamed mussels and fries. Although it came out well, I’m still tinkering on the recipe, which should be coming in the next few weeks.

I did a marinière sauce (white wine, thyme, shallots, butter), which I think maybe a tomato-based sauce would suit the fries pairing better. I tend to prefer stand-up, assertive flavors rather than delicate ones. I need a broth that gets in your face.

Literally.