A Table for Contradiction

Why food was never really the story

For most of my life, I thought I was writing about food.

Seventeen years, thousands of meals, countless restaurant openings, road trips, recipes, interviews, and stories later, I'm starting to realize food was never actually the story. The People were.

I think that's why I've never felt fully understood. I've always seen the gray. Most people seem comfortable choosing sides. Right or wrong. Republican or Democrat. Kids or no kids. Dogs or cats. Good or bad.

Stay or go. Success or failure.

Meanwhile, I've spent my life noticing the space in between.

The reasons people do what they do.

The contradictions they carry.

The grief hiding beneath a smile.

The hope that survives despite the evidence.

The fact that two opposite things can exist at the same time.

For years, I didn't know how to explain what I saw.

I didn't have language for it.

Especially as someone who would later discover at age 43 that she was autistic and had ADHD. I knew I was observing the world differently. I didn’t seem to have the “friend” gene or the “parent” gene.

I just didn't know why.

So I talked about food. Obsessively. Food became my translator.

A basket of chips and queso could do what words often couldn't. Around a table, people relaxed. They told the truth. They shared stories they hadn't planned to share. They celebrated. They grieved. They laughed. They remembered.

They connected.

Food gave me a way to understand people.

And in many ways, it gave people a way to understand me. Looking back, I don't think blogging about restaurants became my career because I was obsessed with restaurants.

I think my fascination with restaurants became my career because I was fascinated by humanity.

Most people walk into a restaurant and see dinner and some pretty decor.

I walk in (alone most of the time) and see family dynamics. Opening teams and last service swigs behind the bar. Celebration rituals of wealthy executives.

First dates.

Last dates.

Business deals with under the table innuendo and sideways glances at me, the solo girl at the bar with the laptop.

Then I’d see Forgiveness.

Loneliness.

Belonging.

Culture.

Generosity.

Love.

A restaurant isn't just a building.

It's a stage where human beings reveal themselves.

The food is often just the invitation.

For years, I thought I needed to pick a lane.

Food writer.

Author.

Sober person.

Spiritual seeker.

Neurodivergent advocate.

Storyteller.

But the older I get, the more I realize life isn't a lane.

It's a braid.

I wrote a cocktail book.

Today, I don't drink.

Both things are true.

I love Nashville's bar culture.

I also love zero-proof cocktails and conversations that don't require alcohol.

Both things are true.

I carry tremendous grief.

I also experience tremendous joy.

Both things are true.

I ask questions.

I have faith.

Both things are true.

The world often demands certainty.

Pick a side.

Pick a box.

Pick a label.

But life has never felt that simple to me.

Maybe that's why chips and queso became my thing.

Not because they're extraordinary.

Because they're dependable.

A crunchy thing and a soft thing.

Different textures.

Different experiences.

Existing together.

A tiny lesson in duality sitting in a basket.

The older I get, the less interested I am in choosing sides and the more interested I am in building tables.

A courtroom demands a verdict.

A table invites a conversation.

A courtroom asks who's right.

A table asks people to stay awhile.

A courtroom divides.

A table gathers.

When I look back at my career now, I don't see thousands of meals.

I see thousands of conversations.

Thousands of stories.

Thousands of moments where people let their guard down long enough to be human.

Food was never the destination.

It was the bridge.

The decoder ring.

The universal language that helped me understand a world that often felt difficult to translate.

Maybe that's what I've been building all along.

Not a food brand.

Not a travel brand.

Not a sobriety brand.

A place where people can bring their contradictions.

Their questions.

Their grief.

Their joy.

Their faith.

Their uncertainty.

Their whole messy, beautiful selves.

A table big enough for the whole story.

A table for contradictions.

And maybe that's what a life well fed really means.