I love food.
I love cooking. I love eating. I love going to farmers markets and even wandering the aisles of grocery stores. I lust after beautiful, colorful fresh produce with the same enthusiasm that heterosexual young men lust after lingerie models, except the objects of my affection are all-natural.
I also love the food-sharing experience. I love eating with people (though I hate having people watch me eat), cooking with them and cooking for them. Food is cultural, tactile, even sensual. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that many people have some sort of memory that marries food and romance.
Oh, they don’t all have to involve elaborate, gourmet meals. I have warm and fuzzy memories of eating mashed potatoes that my significant other cooked for me in Paris. I was jet-lagged, sleep-deprived and delirious, but the potatoes were delicious.
A friend said she and her husband make a point of finding “that one stellar meal” with every holiday they take. One restaurant, she said, made a lasting impression.