memoirs of cooks/chefs/etc are always SO fascinating to me (even if my food-allergic self can’t eat any of the things they so beautifully wrote about). there’s something about the way they both create food and then write about food that feels so mesmerizing and intriguing to me, like some kind of total magic. erin’s story here isn’t an easy one, and trigger warnings abound, but i was cheering her on and invested in her story as i read, even when it frustrated and even confused me. it wasn’t as flowery as other foodie memoirs have been, but had a bit more grit and raw honesty too it, which sounds reflective of her food and story and personality, too.