My first love was food. I know this to be true because I recall with vivid detail food memories from childhood and adolescence:

Sugar-sprinkled on berries still sun-warmed, plucked from my Granny’s garden.

Blue cheese dressing drenched house salads topped with red onion ringlets, devoured at the end of the bar owned by the Queens-bred California transplant who would marry by mother and take me on as his own when I was three.

Sausage gravy caressing buttered biscuits for breakfast from my Texan father.

The crack of my first lobster for my 13th birthday at Jimmy’s Harborside restaurant.

Learning my mom’s recipes by sight.

Other remembrances, well, not so much.

Like all first loves, there was much to learn. I fumbled through chocolate chip cookie doilies and Alfredo paste, defeated in my inexperience. Food was tender and caring, coaxing me to practice until a natural intuition guided mind and actions.

Like all loves long-lasting, I continue to embrace the beauty of my passion for food each day, appreciating different facets of its personality, always feeling in a state of discovery.

My second love was writing. Discovered as a pre-teen, poetry was the first form to take hold as hormones raged and thoughts raced. Although math and science were the practical path in college, my English professor recruited me to switch majors through handwritten notes on each of my papers. I chose to study English as well as writing of a practical nature—technical. When a professor mentioned recipe writing as an example of tech writing, something clicked.

Many paths, although at the time seemingly unrelated, led to my polygamous marriage with food and writing. Stints in publishing, Web management, government and restaurants tortured my artistic nature, but molded this particular path of interest.

When I lived in Boston’s North End, the fusion began to meld. Maybe it was the air scented with garlic and baking bread. Maybe it was the unique opportunity of shopping for goods from a variety of expert vendors. Maybe it was recipes on scraps of paper shared after years of patronage. Maybe it was being called the resident foodie at the office because I printed packets of recipes from the Web each night before leaving work. Maybe it was all about the timing.

Whatever the reason or reasons, I know that my adoration is concrete.

Palate-to-Pen was long in the making. Just the domain name took months to develop. Then, it sat, unused for years, until my dear friend Kiloran e-mailed me one night, “check out your URL.” What I saw was the header image he designed. Speechless. Grateful. Ecstatic. Petrified. Now I had to write.

As all bloggers know, the nature of blogging is the only motivation one needs to continue writing. When you love what you write about, then the obsession sets in, and you are doomed to create, create, create, then post. A delightful torture. If anyone reads what you write, then that’s the added bonus!

Feel free to contact me at palatetopen@gmail.com.

Enjoy.