I hate my folks. My mother is/was a great cook. Long line of abuse and abusers, but also really good food. Wanted to learn to cook, but she gatekept the kitchen. No one was allowed to cook but her. Fast forward, I’m in the military. Hating every second of it. Wash out of OSHA type training job in it, got slapped with military cook job. First time I ever cooked was in that training. Our first dish to make was Salisbury steak. I made best in flight. That lit a fire under me to keep improving my cooking skills. I am an artist as well, so there were things between upbringing and service that came together with how food is made and enjoyed that I find art in. And making it and how it tastes, how it makes people feel. I hated my life and thought a good way to cope is by feeding people the best shit they’ve ever had. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I don’t like doing most things, depression is a bitch, but it keeps me moving, engaged, and I can get a little violent if I like. It’s therapeutic in a way, not that I’d know, can’t afford it but I assume the payoff feeling is similar. Now, I cook for me and my wife. She’s crazy picky and didn’t grow up eating much else than canned food. So, I like challenging her, seeing what she likes and dislikes. Trying to get her to eat something she says she hates, but realistically just hasn’t had the best version of yet. I love seeing when I’ve done a good meal she has her eyes roll back. Food is life, it is art, it is energy, and it is love. I hate most things about most things, but food always helps in some way. ( I hope this is coherent enough, I’m exhausted and high.)