I often forget how my upbringing is very different from others. My past is something I’m familiar with (having lived it), but it is easy to take for granted the nuisances of one’s own life. As I network with people, I have met people with so many interesting stories. From a twenty-something who has just returned from living in Costa Rica, running her own clothing shop, and enjoying the beauty of a first love that kept her abroad for two years to a business-savvy, under-40-years-old-CEO of his own company, one of the best bosses I’ve ever had, and an ambitious, aspiring billionaire, to name only two of the unique characters that have swirled into my life, recently. These people inspire me to live outside of my comfort zone, to reach for the stars, and to try something new and daring.
People are fascinating, and they, in and of themselves, are one reason why I enjoy journalism and telling their stories. It is remarkable where life will take you or who will come along for the journey, but I hope I am able to continue to find amazing people in the world to join my little corner of the world (a Yo La Tengo song worth listening to). If I returned to the higher education system, I would enjoy studying psychology, among other subjects. As a journalist, I have an insatiable hunger to learn. Therefore, I forecast I will continue to strive for more, and meeting people, such as veteran journalists raised in a carnival or award-winning writers, only create a drive in me to try harder.
So how does this entire prelude tie into me making a frittata? Well, if you know anything about me, you know my mother is an amazing chef. I grew up around a cornucopia of food choices, which is after she got my sisters and I to stop eating corn and rice for lunch everyday. Food is one of those iconic items that brings people together and can bring comfort when needed. The symbolism of breaking bread with your friends is a tradition long-held in most countries (that I know of, correct me if I’m wrong).
I’ve known words like puttenesca and frittata since I was a child. However, not everyone was fortunate enough to be forced to enjoy the finer culinary arts at a young age. Last week, I got a hankering for a frittata. My Southern was coming out as my cravings kicked in, although frittatas are not Southern comfort food, hankering is definitely a Southern terminology. As I debated this with the voices inside my head, I decided to voice my ongoing debate with the hungry Kate and the lazy Kate.
I turned to my roommate to ask her opinion. She returns a blank stare and asks what is a frittata. Having had years of eating frittatas, I confidently explained it to her. She deduced that a frittata is like an egg pita with spaghetti in the middle. This inference had me rectifying her knowledge of frittatas by making a spinach, tomato frittata.
She enjoyed it, which is no small feat if you know Charly. Her congenial personality would not lend one to think that she’s a picky eater, but her list of “Don’t Eat” is longer than all my scarves tied together (which could probably wrap around the world a few times after my initial knitting phase that tied together more scarves than I could wear in one winter – knitting a long rectangle isn’t hard).
This is the tale of the frittata that showed me how unique is my personal life.