I love food. I love shopping for it, cooking it, consuming it. I am a definite food fanatic. When I go grocery shopping, I love to go by myself and roam up and down every isle. The produce is vibrant and beautiful. I let my fingers graze over green leaves, dusty potatoes and orbs of fruit in every texture and color. And the smells… ah. I love to look at the jars and boxes stacked right up to the edge of the shelves. Old products that my grandmother used to make Sunday dinners sitting next to new products just hitting the market. I have each store layout memorized and my grocery list reads like a store map, guiding me through the deli to produce, eggs, milk, fish and frozen food. I could be a guide to the grand culinary adventure of grocery shopping.
It’s a borderline obsession, I realize. Food magazines are my life, and everything that leaves my stove is judged by my own panel of Top Chef judges assembled in my head, complete with harsh criticism and witty banter. My husband believes my standard is too high, but I argue that by aiming for an absurdly high culinary standard, the results of falling short are still damn high.
The Livengood household eats well, indeed, or will be until I meet with a wellness coach this week. The consequences of a lack of movement and an obsession with all things food is a bit of fluffiness that serves me well in the winter, but is a definite problem during the warmer months. I can see a train wreck coming, screeching and sparks included.