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I grew up in the kitchen.

Hospitality, it's kind of been my thing, even when I didn't want it to be. Still, somewhere between slopping together sandwiches in college and plating micro greens with tweezers in my twenties, I found an incredible sense of self worth in realizing I preformed a rare and fading art. This art connects straight to the soul, granted, through the stomach. It stirs feelings of nostalgia, regality, discipline, faith and home. Reaching with timid tastebuds at a restaurant, we read a menu and ask the cooks to transport us. We accept that we may ingest the argument they had with their partner the night before, we pray that the sex was good that morning, and that their commute was uncontested. We trust with our tongue, and with every bite, we digest the manic creativity and raw pride of the cook. I found in every kitchen family I earned throughout the years, that there is a binding notion to nourish, held together by a silent oath of excellence and responsibility.  But, as has always been, I understood that over time this vow came with quiet and painful sacrifice. For the lost hours without their children, for all the sleeps that eluded them, and for the beautiful forearms and fingers that bared the storied scars: for all of the dreams put on hold. To me, there was always poetry in the ways in which we loved each other as the family and future we could not yet grasp. Gastro Poetics was born for those culinarily inclined individuals straddling the line between loving what they do, and figuring out where it leads. It exists  to demystify the ostentatious crown bequeathed to food, and to bring it back to the hands that feed.

~N.Bauxprey, Editor in Chief