Photo Courtesy of pvcpvc
I grew up in a family obsessed with talking and thinking about food and because of that, I developed a very food-centric mind. As I lay in bed, my mind drifts in and out of thoughts about the following day’s breakfast – the usual mixture of cereals with sliced banana – and even lunch, visualizing myself hungry around noon or one and what I’d be in the mood for. It’s exhausting. But I wasn’t always this consumed by food. It really started when I first came to Paris.
Young and with an extremely effective metabolism, I came to the city where pastries of the gods reigned supreme and almost immediately lost a once stalwart self-control. Beckoning from every corner bakery with their creamy buttery scent and melted chocolate, dessert became a twice daily indulgence I couldn’t resist. I had never felt so powerless in the face of piping hot baguettes, and flaky pain aux amandes. And it was at this time that my body turned on me.
Growing up, I was always one for second-helpings, particularly on pasta night for which I waited impatiently each week. Even after two (sometimes two and a half) plates, I miraculously always…
