Sometimes, I have stories. Often, I have stories. Our daughter is bursting with stories and questions and imaginings and more stories. I listen to her talk about her imaginary brother and his flight to Chicago in the morning to teach a cooking class in a restaurant. Apparently, he’s teaching people how to make spinach and cheese puffs and gumbo. I ask her questions to keep her going and I smile. Since before she was born, Danny and I have been telling her stories and now she’s telling them to us. Goodness.
But today, I don’t really have a story. I mean, I could tell you a story, but at the moment? I know any story would stand between you and this roasted beet salad with dill horseradish vinaigrette that Danny made for us for lunch.
You could never have convinced me, when I was 16, that I would one day be writing this piece.
Of course, back then I had memorized the name and spelling of every muscle nerve and tendon in the human body because I fervently wanted to be a pediatric oncologist. Say someone had whispered in my ear, “Someday you’ll be writing for a living, writing about food, on a blog about living life fully without gluten.” I probably would have run in fear. At the very least, I would have said, “What is a blog? And what’s gluten? And hey! I’m a professional writer? How cool.”
Mostly, though, my 16-year-old self would have shook with excitement at the idea that the publisher of a book written by Paul McCartney’s daughter would ask me if I’d like to write about it.
I love Paul McCartney. No, you don’t understand. I have always loved Paul McCartney.
Tofu and I have a long, sometimes fractious relationship. We didn’t start off well. When I was in high school, I decided to become a vegetarian. Suddenly disgusted by meat, I announced to my mother that…