"Remember who you are."
I walk along the wall with that statement on it twice a day, everyday, sometimes more if I get lost. It's on the west side of the alley between 3rd Street Promenade and 4th Street, and though I'm sure the bold graphics, large print and bright colors were originally intended to stand out against the buildingish scenery, a corrosive, corruptive environment has blended the artwork right into the dirty chaos that surrounds it.
At least twice a day I pass it, either from the parking garage to the office or back again, but heels clacking in a speedy stiletto blur on the asphalt, head buried in a cloud of wireless gadgetry to catch the last communication before I am cut off for a frighteningly disconnected 40 seconds in the parking garage, I never noticed it. I stopped right in front of the wall for no reason other than chance. When I read the words, they affected me, but only enough to make me take a picture. Not until I heaved myself up eight flights of stairs, hurled my three-too-many bags into the back seat of my car, and crumbled into the driver seat, did I finally let the words fully sink in.
Like a balloon the morning after a birthday party that makes its last whisper of helium before deflating into a wrinkled latex corpse, I heaved a huge sigh meant for no one but myself.
I looked down at the LCD of my digital camera that was displaying the photo I had just taken, occasionally lifting my heavy head to look out over the dash at the hazy Pacific horizon. There was a tiny steam halo on the screen where a tear had landed.
What the...? Am I..? Am I fucking...crying?!?!
I was crying. It was really really lame, which made me cry even more. I had fallen apart.
"Remember who you are." Those words broke me down because I couldn't do what it asked. I don’t know who I am. I can hardly remember who I used to be. Somewhere in the last three years, I’ve become a shell of the being I was before, and that's assuming I remember -- yes, "remember" -- who I was.
I'm Sarah. Remember me? The one who used to love food? I could find the teeniest tiniest thing about a food and just gush on and on about it. I used to sigh over the memory of a meal. I used to savor every bite. I used to dine out on a whim. I used to cook to relax. Hell, I used to cook. Remember when something was just...delicious? I used to think something was "delicious" without wondering if I should blog about it. Remember when I was just Sarah and The Delicious Life was just...a food blog?
There are manymanymany many (!) other things involved, but the food part is what is important here and now.
I have no context, no explanation, for what happened. I didn't stop momentarily in front of the wall in that alley for a reason - I just stopped because. No one pointed out the sentence at the bottom of the wall to me - I just looked because. No one knew that I needed a framework to help me figure me out - Foodette of RestaurantReviewWorld just tagged me with a meme because. Because that's what bloggers do. They tag one another with memes.
The Foodette calls this list of seven random things about yourself Lucky Seven, but I am changing the name because I don't think I ever read the Blog Meme Rule Book, and even if I did, I am sure I skipped over the Renaming a Meme rule on purpose. This is Sexy Seven because there is nothing sexier than a food blogging hermit-ess who is so retardedly busy forgetting who she is that she needs to list seven totally random, unrelated facts about herself to remember!
Naturally, these are all food-related facts (which means they're not totally random, nor totally unrelated) since The Delicious Life is supposedly a food blog. I am also supposed to "tag" seven other people, but there are no restrictions on what type of people, so I am tagging the first seven people to read this post. You can makes your list in the comments, and to keep the fun going, you guys should tag one another, too because that's what Delicious do. We turn blog socialization inside out!
Seven Random Foodish Facts About Sarah
- I don’t eat a regular breakfast during the week partially because I forget, partially because I don't have time, but mostly because a lazy, late morning breakfast on the weekend of eggs Florentine or maybe an Egg McMuffin if I can make the 10:30 am deadline, is sacred.
- I will put hot cock on everything and anything. I say I hate foie gras, but I bet if you smothered that disgusting slab of liver with sriracha, I'd eat it without batting an eyelash.
- I don't eat rice unless I absolutely have to.
- My favorite food is sushi. I have a particular affection for silver-skinned fish with oily, strongly fishy flavor like saba, aji, and kohada.
- My favorite food is Mexican! If we're getting technical, it's Tex-Mex because I ate chimichangas and flautas while listening to a mariachi from a boat on the Riverwalk.
- I am veryveryvery very(!) fickle and totally full of contradictions when it comes to food. (please see #4 vs #5)
- I collect menus signed by the chef from restaurants I try. I don't care whether the chef has written a book, been on tv, or has an empire of a bazillion restaurants. Every chef who makes a stellar meal is a fucking star to me.
Thanks for the therapy, Foodette!
** a year ago today, hatfield's was like an IM conversation **
** two years ago today, chameau went north, south, EAT, west **