I was a classic chick-flick protagonist growing up – a shy kid who hits books to avoid people. I hated going outside. I hated the sun, the moon, the stars and everything nature. Luckily, my mother had a massive collection of novels, comics and journals, which she stored in a big red old cabinet under our altar. I remembered spending hours a day, lying on my belly, leafing through pages of old dusty pages amidst the cloud of molds from old pages and incense smoke from the altar above. Whenever a book was coming to an end, I would try to read slowly so I was not forced to go outside by boredom. Not surprisingly, growing up with books made me want to start writing. I am not saying that I am a good writer, but a solid 80% of me believes that the love for writing does not come to those who hate reading.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Thursday, September 8, 2016
I first heard of Cape Cod from a 60-something-year old gregarious woman named Ayse and a loud musician named John. My eyes twinkled and my jaws gaped open in a permanent rigor mortis as she recounted the story of how she carried pounds and pounds of clams and mussels from the beach in her skirt, to be steamed and eaten right away. John just nodded at a table-length, with a face of you-are-missing-out.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
The idea of cooking for oneself has received a bad rap universally. It is not inherently evil to make and enjoy yourself an incredible meal, but somehow the society made it seems like it is. Well, f*k this.