Edible Memoir

About the Chef

Food Blog for the Food Literate

GRAMMAR WARNING – I am endlessly, deeply, and infatuatedly in-love with commas. Abandon all hope ye who, do-not-love-run-on-sentences, enter here.

Bon appétit, my fellow epicures.

Em is for Emily. Amateur Cook. Nonconformist Baker. Aspiring Epicure. Travel Devotee. History Respecter. Modest Bibliophile. Constant Learner. Grateful Soul.

I feel obligated to start somewhat at the beginning, circa 2009, when I happened upon a movie titled, Julie and Julia, a veritable love poem to the culinary ingenuity that was Julia Child. Protagonist, Julie Powell, challenged herself to re-create the 524 recipes in Julia Child’s cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in the span of a year. The movie showcased her ups and downs but ultimately climaxed in an anti-climatic story of self-acceptance and perseverance. Quite honestly, who wouldn’t like to find self-love and destiny nestled in a cookbook. Like Julie, one of my college majors was English, she went the creative writing direction, and I, the literature route; both of us traversing down a forked path concluding at the same intersection, the undefined future. Knowing me and my totally fulfillable goals, to avoid any disappointed expectations, I hope to use this platform to embark on a lofty, time fulfilling, life-epiphany of an edible journey. 

The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you have to have a what-the-hell kind of attitude. – Julia Child

In the years since graduating college, I have jumbled through a kaleidoscope of experiences; catering, legal assistant, dog-walking, graphic design, and a profound journey through the labyrinth of pandemic isolation, which, surprisingly, did not reveal all of life’s answers, but instead, gifted me with new questions, new perspectives, and a rekindled love for both the familiar and the unexplored.

Post-pandemic life has been, dare I say, a renaissance of sorts, where stepping outside again felt both foreign and exhilarating, where masks became occasional accessories rather than daily necessities, and where the world, once again, extended its invitation to be discovered, tasted, and savored. And savor I did.

Post-pandemic, my wanderlust has led me through the cobblestone streets of San Miguel de Allende, where vibrant colors danced alongside equally vibrant flavors, where every corner turned revealed another culinary secret waiting to be unraveled. Japan welcomed me into its arms of precision and passion, where I found myself humbled by the dedication to craft and the reverence for ingredients that makes Japanese cuisine a symphony of simplicity and complexity. The sun-drenched coasts of Spain and the azure waters of Greece have been the backdrop to meals that transcended sustenance, becoming memories etched in the palate of my mind, punctuated by the laughter shared with strangers-turned-friends that reminded me of the universality of love and good food.

I’ve danced, I’ve wept, I’ve toasted to new beginnings and old friendships, all while trying to navigate the ever-evolving map of my future. Law school beckons with its promise of structure and purpose, while UX whisper seductive possibilities of creativity and innovation. And in the midst of this beautiful chaos, I find myself at peace with the not-knowing, embracing the journey rather than fixating on the destination, finding gratitude in the present moment, even as I dream of tomorrow.

Still when I’m at a loss of what to do next, I mosey into the kitchen, peruse the refrigerator, and then realize that … I’m not actually hungry. That non-hunger leads me to research some complicated recipe for a dish that I’ve had maybe once in my life, or maybe never at all, and then proceed to take hours completing the task. And you know what, I love it. I can quite literally zone out everything else, well besides some classical music (okay, I admit, sometimes I simultaneously watch a show or two, and just Netflix & Slice, because Netflix-ing while cooking is just love at the kitchen plug), and just exist when I’m in the kitchen. I love cooking and I love what cooking brings out in me. It allows me to express my love language. I am a strong believer that one of the love languages is Cooking for Others and the feelings you experience while cooking is that secret ingredient many chefs boast about in their recipes. I love cooking for my family and friends, I love trying new recipes, and I love tweaking existing recipes or inventing my own. It’s a rush of pure-adrenaline, creative, and love-fueled energy. 

Hands down, I love cooking for my mom, I was fortunate to weather the pandemic with her, she is my most boisterous cheerleader and most ardent critic. She makes cooking the labour of love I see it as. As my loudest supporter and the most vigorous consumer of my craft, this blog is dedicated to her. Her love and understanding has allowed me to continue on this reinvention journey through the global culinary labyrinth. 

I suggest starting my edible memoir from the beginning, the genesis, my Preface.

As a clarification and to avoid any future nastiness, I am not affiliated with any linked or mentioned websites, organizations, or recipes written into my chapters.