When I was a freshman in college, my friend Kari asked me if I would like an orange. We were sitting in her dorm room with some friends. I accepted her offer, and watched, a few minutes later, as everyone in the room stared at me aghast. My faux pas? I had bitten into the orange without peeling it—sunk my teeth into it skin and all.

Had I never had an orange before?, Kari asked.

Of course I had—in fruit salad. Sliced up with maraschino cherries and marshmallows and sour cream. Or in one of those little Dole single-serving mandarin containers. But a whole orange?

No, I guess I hadn’t.

This is all by way of introducing my culinary upbringing. Growing up in suburban Cincinnati, Ohio, vegetables for my family meant canned green beans. Or broccoli boiled and slathered in Velveeta cheese. A complete meal—because my mom did care about the three food groups, balanced nutrition, see?—meant a chicken patty, a baked potato loaded with butter, and a side of canned Dole fruit salad. Or maybe a frozen Market Day chicken breast, canned corn and slices of white bread with butter. Lunch? My mom never missed packing it for us: a pizza lunchable, a thing of Dunkaroos and some Pringles was common, or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Oreos and a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.

I could go on and on, but for simplicity’s sake let’s just stop here and call my diet “Late-Century High Americana.”

That day in Kari’s room was, however, honestly my first inclination that perhaps my diet had been … limited.

I received many other reminders throughout the years. There was the time I went to a Japanese restaurant with my college-boyfriend’s rich parents, and had no idea what any of the menu items even were. There was the time I learned from my grad-school roommates that fish could be cooked without battering or breading. I have slowly—over the 9 years I’ve been out of my parent’s house—been broadening my culinary horizons: first, the introduction of that damn orange, and later, tofu, fish, vegetables not in a can, couscous, olive oil, Indian food. The examples of foods I’ve only been recently introduced to are endless (I had my first spaghetti squash just last week).

These days, I am surrounded by vegans, vegetarians, raw foodists and meat-lovers; girls who brew their own kombucha and boys who bake bread. I grow herbs in the hallway of my Greenpoint, Brooklyn apartment; my boyfriend brews beer, distills whiskey and sells raw vegan nut-pate at local food markets. The community we’ve found for ourselves here includes farmers, foodies and urban beekeepers.

My mother thinks I’m nuts. When I embarked on a 3-month raw food diet, she sent me chocolate and cookies in the mail every few weeks. When I visited home for Christmas, she made it her mission to fill me with as much non-vegan, non-raw food as I would tolerate.

But she also tried the baked eggplant and leeks, olive tapenade, lemon-thyme tilapia, acorn squash and other dishes I cooked up for her and my father that week. She agreed to try replacing butter with olive oil for some cooking; to trade a baked sweet potato lightly sprinkled with salt for a baked potato slathered in sour cream every now and then. It’s a start.

Changing my eating habits – learning to embrace fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grains, things that don’t come packaged or pickled or frozen – has been a long and stilted process for me. I’m lucky to date someone now who’s not only knowledgeable about nutrition, but also an excellent chef: he’s shown me how truly flavorful and fulfilling this kind of diet can be. These days, I don’t cook up healthy dishes because I think I should but because I think they’re delicious. I crave kale stir-fried with a bit of soy sauce and agave nectar; I’d take a sprouted-grain tortilla with avocado and onion over Triscuits with cheddar cheese any day.

I’m lucky to live in a place where access to fresh, quality foods is ample, at a moment in time when the cultural zeitgeist deifies all things artisinal, organic and local. And I don’t begrudge my family for the food I was raised on; my mother is a product of another food era, one in which convenience had the potential to liberate, and synthetic food production held the promise of a better future. Besides, oranges—with all that sticky juice squirting everywhere—really aren’t worth the effort.

But I’ve also found that, since getting serious about changing the way I eat, I’ve increased my energy levels, boosted my mood and lost 12 pounds. I feel and look better than I ever have before. And my friends consider me a pretty good cook.

This is getting long; apologies. There’s just so much to start with here. But, in the interest of winding down, let’s just say: this is going to be my blog about living. I have another blog about social politics, media, culture, etc. etc. etc. This one is going to be information-locavore. Things my roommate, Katie, & I are growing and eating. Cool recipes and cooking processes we learn. Others in the North Brooklyn community who are doing/saying/making awesome things. Tips. Stories. Events of interest. Household minutiae. Musings on just-outside-the-big-city life.

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