What a catchy title for a first post, so original and utterly clever— I’m rolling my eyes all around the equator for my uncreative sarcasm.

In a figurative yet almost literal sense— the different cortices of my brain aren’t made out of food— the phrase ‘Food for Thought’ is truly the story of my perpetually hungry existence. Whether it was nature or nurture’s vast contribution to my cognitive and, also, my gastronomic development, my brain habitually and incessantly muses about food, and my stomach constantly rumbles to be fed. WTF doesn’t always mean, ‘What the fuck?!’, in my colloquial dictionary; majority of the time, I use WTF to ask, ‘Where’s the food?’.

Food will always be an important aspect of my life—obviously for survival, alongside air and water. There would be times when I’d spend at least half an hour pondering about what to eat and where to eat. I feel like my silent and lackadaisical facade created this impression on people that I’m a profound individual, when in reality my neurons cannot even transmit worldly wisdom or progressive ideas because food, and eating, predominantly consumes my thought processes.

When my best friend and I were in college, and before she subjected herself to that thing called marriage, we would stroll around Georgetown and eat at our favorite spot up in Wisconsin Avenue. She’s Hindu so she doesn’t eat beef. Preferentially, she doesn’t eat pork and has a distaste for seafood except for fried calamari which she could feast on if she were stuck on an island. She likes pasta, chicken is manageable, and because the world is gradually becoming a better place, she has finally developed a fondness for alcohol. My best friend is one of the pickiest eaters that I’ve ever encountered in this planet. She comes in second to my other friend who hates cheese and seafood but would eat anything with rice—mind you, we were on a diner one evening and she was intently looking and reading the descriptions on the menu as she searched for an entree that included at least a grain of rice.

Anyway, on one of those days when my best friend and I satiated ourselves with an indulgent amount of carbs, we were looking for a place to eat another set of desserts—this was after we shared a heavenly slice of Tiramisu. So I started enumerating, in great detail, all the available dessert options within close proximity. My best friend, who has been unwaveringly supportive of my hunger, said, “You know what? Every time you talk about food, I see the sparkle in your eyes.”

My best friend is very well aware of my curious appetite and love for food. She’d compliment my cravings and would always point out every time she notices the “sparkle” in my eyes. The only concern I have was the use of the word, “sparkle”, to describe the dilation of my pupils and the widening of my eyes. The thought of sparkle being associated with any part of my body or even just the image of my scowling face with a sparkle Photoshopped over my fucking eyes had me shaking my damn food-filled head. I have nothing against the word, “sparkle,” I’d use it to describe words that are inherently sparkly. But it’s just one of those words that never sat well with me when referenced because of one reason: Mariah Carey. She starred in a film called Glitter. She sparkles in the poster, her hair sparkles, her skin sparkles, the background sparkles. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Mariah’s musical legacy—Always be my Baby is one of the catchiest songs out there: doo doo doo oh, doo doo doo doo doo doo doh… and we’ll linger on... see, I just sang the song in my head. Anyway, I don’t sparkle, I don’t have any plans to sparkle, no part of my body sparkles—I’ve lived my life trying to avoid any interaction with anything that sparkles. The only “sparkling” thing that I occasionally deal with is when I ingest a bottle of Pellegrino, and it’s not really even sparkling because it’s actually carbonated, so let’s just leave this adverbial debate at that.

Anyway, back to my best friend and her compliments about my hunger. She would always tell me that my apathetic aura suddenly becomes vivacious when noteworthy food entered any conversation or discussion. Believe you me, I am nowhere near the ‘viv’ in vivacious. I cannot even imagine myself being openly enthusiastic about the sources of my excitement.

Contrary to other people’s beliefs that my emotions are non-existent, I do acknowledge their presence when I feel them. Maybe my DNA has an explanation on why I tend to be calm about everything. If someone would scream, “ZOMBIES!”, followed by a stampede of people running for survival, a highly probable reaction from me would be an incredulous look, a smirk and a declarative statement like, “Oh, look, there’s a zombie apocalypse.” Unless, of course, someone would scream, “FREE FOOD!”, then I might start walking briskly to the very generous source of the free food.

I think it’s safe to deduce that food brings out the best in me. I am happier and much more pleasant every time my anticipation regarding my gastronomic ventures gains momentum. I try to wake up early so I could drive miles away to taste authentic delicacies and specialties that can only be found in a particular town. Food has fooled me to believe that I have creative potentials. Though I’m not as engrossing and effective like THE Tony Bourdain, my writing ambitions and my photographic aspirations are full of hope because of food—just look at this, I am writing frivolous sentences and paragraphs because of this passionate connection with an experience that I will physiologically shit out!

I have every reason to live a wonderful life because thoughts about food have been supplementing my motivation to reach my goals. In a way it gives my quotidian source of living some purpose so I can invest on experiences that will allow me to explore and discover interesting and diverse places where food is an essential part of their culture, lifestyle, and identity. To put it in basic terms: my main goal in life is to eat. Travel comes second, and gaining boundless knowledge comes third. Food even encourages me to rise from my bed, leave the confines of my room, and immerse my introverted self into social settings so I can satisfactorily gratify myself with edible pleasures waiting to be devoured by my eager appetite.

I consume food, and thoughts about food consume me.

I have the faintest idea of what I will be writing about after this. I might write about food. I might share some of my mundane experiences that will probably be only valuable to me. Admittedly, writing is cathartic. I’m more expressive when I write than when I’m in an actual conversation with a person. Being a Virgo and an INTJ that I proudly am, I consider myself very aware, realistic, and critical of my emotional sensibilities. But due to my innately reserved and undemonstrative nature, my feelings and emotions don’t reflect and translate to the behavioral expressions that people would normally expect to see. Thus, I’m considering this whole writing thing as another avenue for self-expression, maybe to even compensate for the visible lack of it.

In the mind of a person who always thinks about food, this blogging thing will be a taste test where I’ll be nibbling on bits in the beginning and taking fearless bites in the future. Hopefully, this “taste” will lead to authentic and pleasing options. But there will come a time when it will eventually cease to please my insatiable palate. When that happens, I will seek and move on to another appetizing fare.

Maybe I’m just craving for a little perspective. And in the words of Anton Ego, “some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective.”