None of these stories are true

San Francisco, September 2014

All of these things are true but probably tell you nothing about me. 
I grew up in Europe. I learned to cook when I was about 7.  I don't have a hometown. I've lived in San Francisco most of my adult life. I cook everything from scratch, except the pizza and the pasta... most days.  I knit the hats. I do the deals. I manage the multimillion dollar inventory. I earned my first money cooking when  I was 13. I lived with a band for 2 years.  I used to write a  parenting column. I modeled for for Valentino. I threw up all over Swiss Guards, running away from the Pope and the President at a private (50 person) audience.  I'm a city girl.  I love farms and gardening and riding horses. I am an only child with a huge family. I've been to 22 countries, and I've got 23 to go.

The macro and the micro
Food reflects a culture, and  a culture is reflective of it's food.
Culture and cultureways and foodways don't always follow lines on a map.
Food, because it can carry an unwritten history for thousands of years.
Food, because it is tactile and sensual and not twitter and apple and the hard metal and silicon and plastic of all of our daily lives.

What are the lines? I know This experiment works with any cultural artifact, but food is the one I know the best, both my vocation and avocation.

Food, because I grew up in Italy. Food, because it is as close as I know how to get to magic in Weber-world. When a pot of water turns into delicious soup, when a tiny spec turns into a head of lettuce, when a lump of mud is spun into a bowl. Magic. The look on the face of a (city raised)  child eating a carrot they grew, or a strawberry they picked: delight, possibility, power, confidence. Things people big and little could alway  use a little more of. Agency. Awareness.