So much of what we do, how we interact with the world, is unceremoniously summarized and condensed for easy mental consumption. We don’t do this. “They” do it. The real snaggle is that for them, we’re the “they,” as much as we may try to pretend otherwise.
Oh… the point. Right.
Well, take me. I am learning to play the ukulele. I have studied statistical physics. I really like good food. My wife and daughter are good friends of mine. I’m a crack shot. I generally get things paid on time. I write medical software. I read about boxing. My feet and knees are suffering under too much of me. I have a little film canister’s worth of sand from the Kuwaiti desert, when I was there in 1991. There is something I truly love about this chord progression: G, Gmaj7, G6, G, Cmaj7. I miss teaching math. I work with fun and crazy people. I am a recovering French Canadian.
What’s the word for that? For me? I’m bigger than most sea mammals… but when Bach resolves an intricate tension in a fugue, I have been known to turn away with a bit of “sand in my eye, that’s all.” Yet, we must derive some sort of label, either for ourselves or allow it to be done in proxy.
I’m broken, there’s no doubt. Genetics, weight, a stint in the USMC infantry, and lots of biking has left me wincing just thinking about having to crouch down for something. Then, considering all the other things I enjoy, food has been the longest running go-to guy… Food is an escape, a passion, and a therapy session all rolled up in a flaky pastry crust. Once I realized I could make anything I wanted, I began to cook (not bake – I’m a terrible baker); cooking is trial and error and reward and punishment. It’s a complicated emotion… but there is also no doubt I am a gourmand.
Thus, the Broken Gourmand.
My intention is to catalog as many of my cooking experiments as I can, and perhaps have a place to keep my favorite ukulele charts, too.