I work in kitchens.
I have always worked in kitchens.
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, we read the menu and summon the culinarians 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 the commute uncongested. We trust with our tongue, and with every bite, we digest the manic creativity and raw pride of the cook. I found in every family I earned throughout the years, that there is a binding notion to nourish through 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 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 work with, 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