Recently I missed a birthday. This blog has been oinking for four years and twenty-eight days (as of the date of this post).
I didn’t forget the day. Weeks in advance I thought about what I wanted to say and realized maybe I should write more of the story. And then I needed to think about how I want to do that. Currently, it’s like we’re having a conversation and we’ve agreed to rarely veer from one topic: food.
But food veers, right?
Cuisines fuse. A wine can start out telling you one story, all bouncy and full of fruit then swerve into fields of metal, leather, ash.
I celebrated my first year of oinking with a slice of my grandmother’s favorite cake.
I floated through a fabric sky of cartoon clouds for birthday two.
And fandangled paper umbrellas for year three.
I’ve overindulged my love for a little alliteration and overused the word crunchy on several crisp occasions.
Showing up here, somewhat regularly, for snacks, beverages and wanders through cities all wrapped up in words has tilted my perspective. The food I eat and offer (and how I eat and offer food and drink) reflects my attitudes, inclinations and emotions. Food is a journey and a destination sprung from memories; inspired by moments that want tasting.
I need to think more about all that so I can write more about…all that. I’ll try to be enteratining and deep when I do.
Maybe this year we should chat about other things that feed us…like books. I savor books.
Maybe I’ll compile decades of recipes here in this little slice of cyber-space: a chronicle of my life baked into cakes and simmered into sauces.
May life ferment me to elixir.
Let’s go where the oinking path takes us. Shall we?
Happy Oinking Birthday, Fat Pig in the Market. Better late and considered than neverminded.
This celebration gives me a chance to say thank you for showing up here to you…readers, cocktailers, fellow wanters of beignets, lovers of little stories. It’s cool that you do. Thank you!
I am here. You are here. Oink on.