my perfect storm.

a song to set the scene // stormy weather by frank sinatra

It was a storm with the likes of which we hadn’t seen in years.

In fact, if you talk to any long-time resident of Alaska, this appeared to be the largest amount of snowfall received in such a brief amount of time, ever.

And it was nothing short of a whirlwind.

19 inches of fresh snow had seemingly buried our town overnight.

In some cases, the snow drifts created by the 30 mph winds were over four feet high.

Around me, I watched as businesses closed and neighbors stayed stuck at home, waiting for that blessed snow plow. All the rest of us could do was hunker down and watch in awe.

And hunker down we did.

In all honesty, it felt as though in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I was forced, finally, to just slow down.

Subjected to stay inside and curl up in front of the fireplace with a mug of steaming Abuelita hot chocolate (woe is me), it was as if something out there was giving me this opportunity to actually enjoy the holiday season that typically goes by so fast.

With nowhere to be and nothing to do, it was the first time in a long time that being cooped up indoors was a blessing, a true present.

So I’m telling my counselor this the other day, how much I was loving doing nothing, and I realized something.

While most of the work I’ve been doing is to better understand how and why I respond to emotion, especially the perceived uncomfortable ones like anxiety, worry, disappointment, and fear, I’ve also started to notice and accept the other feelings that come up: like joy, contentment, gratitude, and appreciation.

In this discovery, I’ve also found my curiosity piqued: what are these feelings, and what might they teach me?

I’ve also noticed this newfound opportunity of pausing, which isn’t always so easy to do, especially during the holiday hustle.

I find that it’s really easy to take things for granted, especially when those feelings are so fleeting. It’s easy to overlook the joy, beauty, and opportunity for growth in seemingly insignificant moments, and it’s especially challenging to pump the breaks and sit in whatever sensation you’re feeling and really notice.

Most of us are:

Oh! It’s snowing outside.

Cool.

Whereas I’m like:

Oh! It’s snowing outside.

What a sensation. Just look at the way the snow rages in a fury, collecting intro wildly prominent snow drifts.

It would’ve been so easy to hate this furor of snow, and curse all the havoc it wrought upon our small town.

For me though, it was a gift, a chance to slow down and embrace the opportunity of burrowing in my home.

The “slow” that came with the snow.

Turned out to be my perfect storm.

Hungry hungry Hippocrates.

a song to set the scene // so this is love by sneha, contejas

My gem and I were dining in Amalfi when I stumbled across this quote by Hippocrates on one of our menus:

“Let food be thy medicine, and let your medicine by they food.”

I mean, in what better place in the world would you find a quote about food being medicine and medicine being food than in the culinary capital that is Italy?

It was fitting then: to read this quote not only at another incredible Italian restaurant, but also in the presence of my gem, who happens to be somewhat of a foodie.

Okay, so he’s a Chef.

Lucky me, I’m also a lover of food.

Growing up, I always had somewhat of a refined palette. Preferring clams sautéed in white wine and butter in the stead of the typical pizza palette of my friends, I was raised with an appreciation for fine dining.

There were few things I didn’t eat.

I’ve tried the delicacy of ant larvae in Mexico.

I stomached rabbit head in the south of France.

I enjoy octopus, escargot, and sashimi.

I even ate a fried tarantula on The Late Late Show with James Cordon, served to me by Anna Faris. I mean how could I not.

Photographing my food wayyyyyyyyyyyy before it became popular, food to me was not only been an enjoyable thing to consume, but always something to appreciate, especially when it was tied to a memory.

I feel we should clarify some essential facts before we go further: I love to eat, not cook.

Don’t get me wrong: I can cook.

I can follow a recipe pretty darn well, but that’s about it.

Following in the footsteps of my mom, who followed in the footsteps of her mom, who likely followed in the footsteps of her mom, I’m not very adventurous when it comes to cooking, especially when it comes to seasoning.

But then things changed.

I met my gem.

And suddenly, my entire culinary world transformed.

Instead of viewing cooking as a means to an end, cooking suddenly became the experince itself.

The grocery shopping, the prep, the charcuterie boards we’d make for each other to nibble on while we cooked, Frank Sinatra playing in the background, the wine (there’s always a bottle of wine), the heat from the stovetop, the smells wafting from the oven, the bossing around and the “yes chef!”, the plating, the kissing of the cook before taking our first bites: that was almost better than the sensation of diving into the plates themselves.

Food not only became an activity in which we enjoyed each others company over either.

It was also present for the not so pretty stuff.

When I locked myself in a closet, working through past trauma, food was the safety offering, the sustancene I never knew I needed.

When I was sick, buried on the couch in a field of used tissues, food was the comfort, the medicine Hippocrates talked about.

When I was hangry and stubborn, food would magically appear, usually smelling so good I had no choice but to smile in gratitude.

My gem introduced food to me in an entirely different light.

Cooking became the foundation of so many of our memories together. Even when things were rough, there was food: always a comforting presence.

Cooking to me then, no longer felt like a chore to get to the good stuff. Cooking became the good stuff.

I have this super fond food memory growing up.

Every Sunday, long before my Sundays were tied to working, my dad used to make us breakfast.

While he dabbled with hobo eggs, breakfast burritos, and dutch babies, my favorite dish was good ole fashioned pancakes.

Expressing how much I missed this tradition, my gem agreed to make pancakes with me the other morning.

With a little bit of that fancy palette coming into play, we made the most heavenly pumpkin pecan pancakes.

It tasted like home. But at the same time, it tasted of a new home, for I now had this lovely (and tasty) memory I shared with my gem.

I don’t often know how to express to him how much his culinary skills mean to me. Yes, this guy prepares me some of the tastiest meals I have ever had, but he’s also made me cherish the process of cooking; which, in life, is often the most important part.

Am I spoiled? Absolutely.

Am I gaining weight? Most definitely.

Is it worth it? Always.

While I am still learning how to enjoy cooking, I am getting “batter.”

And lucky me, I have the best Chef by my side.