My story with food started as a little girl. I was born into a family where love is expressed in the amount of food that we make for someone. The more we like you, the more food on the table. Skipping a dish is a clear insult in our dining room. My mother can feed an anorexic and my grandfather, though a lower middle class worker, disliked having to eat alone, a trait I have inherited. It may sound cliche but in the village our front door was always open, and food always being prepared.
My grandmother and great aunt would always invite me into their kitchen when they were preparing a meal and so it was that I learnt how to make wara’ 3enab (stuffed vine leaves) and Chich barak (meat stuffed pastry) before I could make pasta. I grew up with a simple palate, a preference for hearty home made food, and a house that had three fridges for three occupants. So you might say I was bullied into loving food but I love it still.
My boyfriend says I remind him of his grandfather (an Aleppine), always planning my next meal while eating. My boss and friend says I’m like an 18 month old, grumpy when I’m hungry. I just think I’m passionate.
It took me a while to figure out that something needed to be done about it. If there’s anything I’m notoriously known for it is my appetite. I was never one of those girls who ordered a salad in every restaurant they went to and extra kilos where always secondary to yummy food. This blog was named after my constant cravings and this Valentine’s I’m declaring my love for food.
