I tend to forget, sometimes, how much I love food. How I can simply while away hours daydreaming of the perfect recipe for pulled beef, or braised ribs. Reading Sean's blog from Bra reminds me of those Piedmontese lunches that go on and on, of wine ladened afternoons with Amelia over the last 2 decades. Revisiting notes from my travels brings back pungent memories of Hang Be market, dusty streets and bia hoi, inspires me to open cookbooks collected from around the world. Always there are stories, quesadilla and ices outside Tec de Monterrey, tortilla soup and lime beef in a shanty town in the rain forests, windswept hair and suntanned arms. Tom's Sunday evening kedgeree, bottled beer and chess in the conservatory. Warm, sweet baclava from the bakery melting in our mouths, legs dangling over the blue water of the Pelion peninsula.
Perhaps this is another way we tell stories, through our carefully measured ingredients. The food we serve, the restaurants we choose, picking our way across menus, leaning over to share bites. I am slowly finding my way back into Vancouver, through its food. Rediscovering favourite restaurants of my own and those hidden gems of my friends.
Perhaps I can find a place of my own after all, in this myriad of streets.
