It all started with me sucking formula from a graded bottle. I then matured to stuffing handfuls of seafood risotto in my 2 year-old mouth, and now that I have grown into a skilled eater, I have reaped numerous satisfactions in the kitchen and generated a bad relationship with my scale. It reads oddly high numbers, especially after gastronomic epiphanies and wine tasting classes. I am a slave to my palate.
As an enthusiast gourmand and proud glutton, I will never quit the exaggerated abuse of food, whatever the midriff consequences.
My addiction to the delectable governs me.
I pledge my loyalty to the oyster and the tagliatella.
I worship the simple tuber and the sophisticated truffle.
I pay obeisance to the heirloom tomato, the noble garlic and complex extra virgin olive oil.
I am one with the calamari and the bufala.
My deep-burrowing Italian roots intertwine with the origins of my past-life Aztec adoration for chocolate.
Unhindered, I stand by my vice, feeding its craving and honoring it exuberantly three times a day.