My grandfather once told me that “some people eat to live and others live to eat”, I didn’t completely understand the latter, but over time, paired with so much hamburger helper that even My 600 lb. Life would be disgusted, I began to long for my grandmothers cooking. She passed away early in my life, and without a crumb of her food or recipe in sight, I decided to give it a shot on my own. After experiencing constant failures and nearly burning down my own kitchen, my appreciation for what she consistently did in the kitchen began to grow. Reminiscing on the taste of her food began to manufacture memories of the love involved that I am embarrassed to say I had never noticed. It was just food at that time and I only ate to live, and to produce the level of food she served I had to love it. Its been almost 2 decades since her passing, and I’ve spent countless hours chopping, sautéing, baking, breaking sauces, burning my hands, and cutting my fingers. No matter how tired I am or how abusive life can get, I find myself yearning for the therapy of the kitchen. Whether its eating, drinking natural wines, or researching recipes, I want more. I’ve become obsessed. Now I fully understand what it meant when she tied the apron around her waist, spent hours in the kitchen, and laid the plate in front of me… it was love. So here we are. I have a full-time job that has nothing to do with food, and I often catch myself daydreaming of a beautifully cooked skirt steak doused in a freshly chopped chimichurri, dripping off the lips of a beautiful woman. Yet, it’s not the woman that has me aroused. What am I going to do about it? I’ve decided to write about it, review it, taste it and share it. If you’ve come seeking a professional, politically correct safe space, then I am sorry to say you’ve come to the wrong place my friend. Feel free to judge, critique, praise, and express yourself about what I have to say and do. In the end, I don’t care, and my subconscious is telling you to go fuck yourself. Ultimately, this is for me, an ode to a love whose origins were instilled in me long before I ever would’ve imagined. I wouldn’t call myself a chef; I just love to cook. Nor am I a professional writer; I’m just an admirer of the art. A bon vivant crossbred with a gourmand, a glutton’s canvas.