STORIES WITH FOOD.

STORIES WITH FOOD.

There’s a perfect level between emotionally dependent and independent, the essential nirvana of dinner plans, or perhaps no dinner plans. Alike to any peak, the level isn't one achievable with ease or thoughtlessness, rather it considers a deeply consuming resistance combined with an utter ruthlessness that accompanies a sweet tooth. Emotional dependency, we're told, warrants intervention, and so it does when a bad day reasons a binge. Emotional dependency, we're told not, however, also comes with the connection – the connection of food to experience.

One fruitful night began with the abandonment of day eating, an hour bus ride in peak traffic and a less than efficient route – with the excitement of reuniting a friendship unwillingly, yet unnoticeably, relinquished for the previous few months. We waited to be seated, I ordered lager for the laid back connotations, then the handsomely-accented server presented his notepad and whispered magical sweet nothings in my ear. “The Thursday special is a large Capricciosa for $10”. This is rare, oh very rare, and when I'm offered the best pizza off the menu for a lower price than any other small variety, I saw the sign. And with mushroom-olive-anchovy slice in hand and a giddy spirit in mind, I definitively decided never again to eat somewhere else on a Thursday evening.

When I was younger the biggest treat I could ever imagine was coming home from learning the chronology of planets, to see the oven filled with individual, differently shaped ramekins of shepherd's pie. Now, I was very aware this was my ever-hopeful mother's way of tricking us kids into eating vegetables, and as sneaky as I believed she was, with cheese bubbling on top of MY OWN ramekin filled to the brim with stewed, minced beef, it's pretty clear why it wasn't 'til later in life that my Nana couldn't pinch my chubby, baby cheeks with affection any longer.

Nowadays, the best meal I could ever order is whatever on the menu contains the most seafood, and grossing out my dinner partners is only 25 per cent of the reasoning. I got it from my pop. He is a very avid shellfish eater. I came from a small town, so it's not often fresh oysters are for sale, but when they are he's on it like Kim Kardashian is news feeds. He used to keep a pot of cooked mussels in his fridge and when one day as a young teenager, having being dared, I chowed one down and saw the light, seafood convert I was. So for the love of my father and Poseidon, or Neptune if you rather, anything that bathed in salt water for its youth, chuck it on my plate.

Food is not only food, food is experience - share yours below!