I’m a fan of making things from scratch. Whenever I can, I seize the chance. Spending time on Pinterest and Buzzfeed looking at interesting and pinning interesting DIYs to try is a fun activity, yet most of them never come to life.
I’m writing this letter to tell how much I love you!
Even though you’re bad for me, I still love you and want you. I wouldn’t mind having you at any time, however you are.
How can I begin to describe you. I’ll mention what I like about you: your warmth, your softness, your stiffness, your sweetness, the contrast of your saltiness, your amber color, the way you make me dirty and make my hands, fingers and beard sticky and sweet, and how happy you eventually make me. You make me utter sounds I tend to keep locked away.
I have to apologize for trying to mess with you, for trying to change you. It was a disastrous idea. I should’ve known I wouldn’t get the same result. I messed up and we ended up apart. I, having none of you, and you in the trash can.
Once you start cooking yourself, your perspective towards certain ingredients change a lot.
My relationship with onions for example has been like those relationships on my favourite TV show Glee; one of love, hate and then love again. Mom tells me I used to crawl to the produce basket in the kitchen, steal an onion and chomp on it until mom finds me in tears with that onion in my little hands. I grew up to find myself removing onions from food. Large pieces of onions in dishes like tabbouleh and mjadara used to annoy me and I used to move them to one side. Up until I started working at Burger King in 2006, onions have been my enemy. It didn’t take much until that changed. Rounds of onions sneaked their way into my burgers, then into my cooking and now their smell is on my fingers. Ever since I started cooking, I have loved using onions; raw or cooked. I get a little hesitant when I have onions from mom’s cooking but never when it’s mine.