To many that statement is straightforward enough to not invoke a raised brow or ponder for longer than it takes to read it. But for me, my family and interestingly enough my friends, it was, { and sometimes still is }, a HUGE deal.

The thing is, I’d always been a proud carnivore. I didn’t just love meat, for me it was a love affair with passion that perpetually raged at the highest level. I can only believe that it was something I was born with. As a child I would happily down a second or third helping of liver with onions while my siblings recoiled. Reveled in that gently popping sensation in ones mouth when teeth penetrated a cooked kidney. And longed for stringy curried goat flesh between my teeth. Eating meat, was a multi-sensory experience and each meal a psychedelic trip that left me in a gastronomically euphoric state.

I kid you not.

Then one day everything changed. Despite what one friend claims, it wasn’t one specific event that ‘turned me’. Rather, over the years tiny cracks in my meat loving fortress were ever so slowly compromised until my resolve caved and vegetarianism was the only and most important thing before me.

There are many ironies in my choice. Not least, the fact that I always used to mercilessly mock vegetarians. I just didn’t ‘get it’. “No meat? Why ever would you choose to do that?! Something surely must be WRONG with you.” To my brain, vegetarianism was like trying to explain Shakespeare in Lithuanian to a class full of Japanese speaking students. There was just no comprehension at all.

The first crack in my fortress had to be the emergence of v.Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease { vCJD }, more popularly known as Mad Cow’s Disease. I remember when cases started making news in the UK. Images of girls a mere shadow of the person they were a few weeks or months before. Non-communicative, demented, wasting away, fragile and most worryingly, incurable.

Appropriately, the public reacted with outrage. As for me..I wasn’t quite sure what I felt. All I remember was being stunned that this could be the end result to someones short lived life and the reason, not the business end of a gun, but questionable farming practices. I stared stunned and open mouthed at many and any reports of vCJD sufferers and their inevitable deaths.

Although I was shocked, I wasn’t motivated to make a change. Why should I? Meat had been my faithful escort for so many years, it hadn’t personally cuckolded me, why would I leave it now?

Fast forward several years. A transatlantic move and many new life experiences under my belt. When you live in a country other than your place of birth, people ask a lot { of the same } questions. Sometimes out of general curiosity or due to necessity – ie. employers, doctors etc. It was here that I learned that “If, from January 1, 1980 through December 31, 1996, you spent (visited or lived) a cumulative time of 3 months or more in the United Kingdom” you could not give blood. Not ever. The reason? The prevalence of Mad Cow’s disease.

This surprised me. I knew vCJD was a bad thing but to see in print from the medical industry that they full well realised the serious effects, and shockingly long incubation of the disease unsettled me.

I wondered which meal, if any, had been my poisoned chalice..

The thought gnawed away in the back of my mind. Like white noise from an oscillating fan on a warm summer night.

I moved again. However, this time a lot of meditative thought came with me. Trying to come to terms with oneself I realised that what I was told a few years prior by a dear friend, that I was ‘fundamentally the person I was always going to be’ was proving true. And if true, then I was a person who valued loyalty, who staunchly and unapologetically stood up for what is right versus what is wrong. { A trait that makes me a good friend – apparently, and a frightening enemy – also, apparently }. Accepting this realism, resurfaced a creeping feeling.. that for me, buying flesh from the meat industry and consuming this sacrifice was…damaging. But I still didn’t have a repulsion to it, a motivating hatred that would cause me to divorce myself from this amorous lifelong affair.

A friend’s dad loaned me a book he’d been reading. It was about Vegan and the ethics of eating. He thought it might interest me. As I read the book my fortress caved and the flood came. I started looking everywhere and anywhere for information about factory farming processes. I didn’t sleep well for days. Random memories popped into my head – the time I visited the family farm near where my mum grew up and toured their abattoir. I remembered thinking how wonderfully humane and thoughtful their process was and assumed that my { factory farmed } meat was handled the same way.

I also remembered things a friend who worked in PR for a food division of a government agency had told me. Interestingly enough, she was also a vegetarian..

The information was overwhelming. My eyes were opened and I realised just what was happening to an indiscernibly large portion of the meat I had so willingly bought and partaken. We were entrusted as caretakers. Caretakers of this land and all that roams it – but what was going on was far from care. I was weighed down with empathy for any and all consumable animal.

Shocked at how little consideration was given to the quality of the ‘end product’ that I had bought in trust, I felt betrayed, deceived and finally sickened. I literally dry heaved for a solid 36 hours. It was like my body was trying to expel over 20 years of meat unsuccessfully. My throat hurt.

I felt guilty in a crime I was unaware I was an accomplice to. I felt helpless at the lack of control I had over the exact condition of the meat that sat before me. There was only one answer and it was clear. From that day til now, I never ate meat again. { Save for a painful lapse over a bacon and egg butty 3 weeks later! }.

My mind was set. Immoveable as a bulwark.

The first thing I painfully missed was the texture. I had always loved the way meat felt and found it hard to replicate the sensation of sinking ones incisors into its rugged warmth. But my mind triumphed over my heart and within a short period of time the desire for this once constant companion was just..gone.

Friends and family reacted forcefully. I endured accusations of having an ‘eating disorder’ { yeah..THIS craven little beast! }, to mocking, sarcasm and sadly ignorant comments. I saw a lot of my old traits in them and just hoped that one day they would learn to think more openly and acceptingly. Gladly some of them did, while others..probably never will.

I found comraderie in those who were walking this same path. A vegan chef, vegetarian co-workers and others. They taught me, shaped me on where to shop, what to buy, how to live. They helped me find what worked for me. I read and applied what I learned for weeks, months – establishing the gait I was going to take on this journey. All of this helped build a foundation that I continue to grow on.

From time to time my friend Veganyte and I laugh at ‘what crazy thing a meat eater said’ to us. I can laugh now. I’m confident and comfortable in my decision and have always respected the decisions of others to eat meat. It’s their choice. But I sure ain’t doing it!

Gladly there are now some great, ethical options out there for meat eaters, but they aren’t excessively easy to come across. But for me, the lack of desire to eat meat is no longer missed. Funnily enough a good ripe plum sometimes has the feel of steak. Now it seems, vegetarianism is fundamentally a part of who I am and who I always will be.

image by Angie Silvy via marchsf.com

When pleasing aesthetics and modernity meets good design and simplicity my attention is well and truly grabbed. Most week’s I fawn and drool over the loveliest of kitchen spaces – inevitably boasting intricate details or textures and clever layouts. But this week I step away from kitchens and take a peek at MARCH – a new store in San Francisco { oh, to be on the West Coast }, that offers the most exquisite products for the kitchen space and dining table.

image by Angie Silvy via marchsf.com

Where to begin? The light and bright store decor rivals the serenity of any of my favourite European kitchens. Especially as the store is punctuated with classic Aga and Lodge cookers and cookware.

top: ceramics by Christiane Perrochon. bottom: food related art by Carrie Mae Smith.
images by Drew Altizer and Angie Silvy via marchsf.com

A carefully curated collection of alluring products from designer Jasper Conran, simple ceramics by Brickett Davda and Christiane Perrochon, offer a natural elegance to the dinner table. I am especially excited that they also sell food themed art that is actually wall worthy and not trite!

image by Drew Altizer via marchsf.com

So until I get a ticket to San Francisco, I am holding out for the online store to go live..which I am assured is in May. I hope so because my wishlist is already stocked with goodies such as the hand carved wooden spoons exclusive to MARCH, from Blackcreek Mercantile & Trading Co. { priced from $85 – $110. } I don’t know whether to cook with them or frame them and hang them on the wall.

Get thee to marchsf.com and prepare to drool like your favourite dish is in front of you!

image by Angie Silvy via marchsf.com

video via youtube

I am going through something of a music revolt. In the past, I had made a habit of listening to music that hastily pulsated in my head, heart and veins. The purpose of doing so, it seems, was to bring my energies up to a level that mirrored the frenetic beat. A tactic that was incredibly useful when I had a houseful of chores to get done and nary the strength to do much of anything at all.

But such a heightened pace often led to a prolonged state of vivacity, the antithesis of relaxation.

So a change was needed. It quickly became apparent that my choice of music had to be reevaluated to achieve calm. Sure, I still have to get things done, but for once in my life, I am trying to do it..calmly. And here I am – a 12th of the way through 2012, enforcing the habit of listening to the congenial sounds of Fleet Foxes and Band of Horses to name just two. I have found the results intriguing. Yes, I am calmer, but I have also been more forgiving and open minded. My food { as this is a blog about food }, has been more experimental, filled with fresher produce and slight in portion.

My kitchen hums at all hours. Not just for breakfast, lunch or dinner. But late into the evening – prepping ingredients for the next day or creating sauces, staples for weeks to come. My evening kitchen is lit dimly { another experiment – avoiding overhead light }, less cluttered and accented with a cup or glass of some beverage or the other while I tinker around its familiar space.

While this song by Fleet Foxes is not explicitly about an actual kitchen, it’s tone reflects the feel that permeates my evening kitchen. It’s texture mirrors the essentials I concoct in this small space. So enjoy the music, your weekend and the desire to cook late in the day, in your Evening Kitchen.

I fought, of course, with words and sometimes deeds. I was a scrappy wretch after all, and goodness knows I love dinner. But after a while, one came to accept that procrastination begot deprivation and either ate hastily or accepted that one would be obliged to ‘share’ their plate with the quicker and hungrier.

When I grew up, to share a meal took on a new meaning. Working for pittance-per-hour garnered a modest wage, and meant that college lunchtimes at the pub would only be affordable if you split the cost and consumption of your fish n’ chips with your English Lit classmate who hopefully wasn’t as peckish as you. But it was these countless hours at the pub that also introduced me to a new avenue of sharing – that of the heart, the mind and soul.

I learned a lot about my fellow classmates at the pub. It wasn’t the pints talking..but rather the psychological comfort that a satisfied stomach and reassuring four walls of a pub offered. I find that often when one refers to food and it’s ‘effects’ on the body, many presume on the powers of Tryptophan and the pleasing response of Serotonin. But there is more to it than just a chemical response. Eating has been a communal activity from primeval times – an inevitable gathering to share in a similar act. Engaging in such an activity with others opens one up to the idea of sharing more than bread. They are after all eyewitnesses to ones consciously ingesting foreign objects of nutritional value { one hopes }, into ones body. An incredibly personal act in a public space if you over think it. It’s only right..that one would then share things that pertain to the more external personal aspects of ones life.

I will never forget the pub lunch when I learned that Xaviera wasn’t a mouthy, back talking, classroom rabble rouser because she was obnoxious, but rather because she was never granted the chance to set roots and establish close friendships because of her father’s frequently relocating career. She was scared, fragile and shy. Her apparent overbearing demeanour her way of protecting herself. An act of self preservation. Her truth she revealed to us as we chomped our way through some sort of pie and pint. I never saw her in the same light again. Her menace diminished. She was…real.

Then I grew some more. Pub lunches were replaced with ‘dinners’ at friends houses or restaurants with cloth for napkins. Pints gave way to wine glasses or sturdy tumblers swishing with old fashioned’s. The sophistication and nutritional value of the meals also improved as did the quality and freeness of conversation. I’ve always been a shy one { much to the shock of those who don’t know me as one of six }, and love to listen, observe, yet only occasionally speak. But over time the willingness to share was indulged. The passing of years had increased the frequency of wounds in ones life and the salve that was granted through honest talk assuaged the sore.

I have fond memories, and lasting friendships from night’s such as this – learning what hurt, healed and may never be gotten over. Sharing the same. Occasionally, out of defiance there would be a refusal to share. A firmly closed lipped act of rebellion. But the allure of a judgement free zone would eventually coax out a sentence or two that would run freely around the room like a caged beast accidentally freed.

I can only wonder how this apportioning of secrets, feelings, words will evolve as I continue to grow and my life changes. Life’s penchant for cyclical behaviour implies that what started as a life literally sharing at the familial dinner table will end the same. But if there is one thing I’ve learned is never to presume to assume, { my life has a rather dark-humoured way of not doing what one would expect }. Scratch that, if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s to protect one’s plate at all times. Even during father’s prayer.

One thing I love as much as food is a good, fancy wedding! The lovely ladies at Reverie Magazine asked me to write a piece about weddings, New York and what else but eats?!

screengrab via reverie magazine

The debut issue of this UK based wedding mag went live TODAY and is simply stunning! Dresses, bowties, whimsy and grace! Be sure to check out my article on page 240, and the rest of the magazine here.
{ Thank you Kate and Mary – xx }

The ‘be a locavore‘ page has been updated with what’s in season across the United States for the first quarter of 2012!. Check it out! Happy Cooking!

Kinfolk Mag – Dusk Supper from Son of Shark Pig on Vimeo.

It’s simply gorgeous and embodies the feel and principles of a few supper experiences that are on my to-do list to create in 2012. Enjoy!

When I was a kid I used to dream boisterously, frequently and most creatively. I chalked it up to all the adventure filled, fantastical books I pored over on a daily basis, coupled with an ever creative school curriculum. It produced an over active imagination, { the one thing I didn’t lose growing up..much to the chagrin of some!}. Mostly aware of when I was in a dreamlike state I would control the elements of my dream. I could pause them at will, continue where I left off the next day or days after and I could always, always fly.

Then one day the dreams just stopped.

Now they are back and I am waking exhausted yet abuzz. The first thing I do every day is text a friend and tell her what I dreamt – like a person learning a new language who is excited to share the verb they perfectly conjugated.

But me being me, one of my recent dreams involved a kitchen. The broader narrative is that I was living in Paris, in an artist studio and creating…just creating whatever came to my mind and heart. I was a visual artist, perhaps a painter. Which is laughable because I have never been good at drawing or painting. However, there was a distinct moment in the dream where I saw the kitchen and paused. It was modest, makeshift, loft like, with lots of raw materials – woods, steel and brick. It was rustic and yet beautiful.

I have searched high and low for a picture of a kitchen that even barely touches on what I saw in my dream and have been unable to find one. I did find one that contained elements of what I imagined, albeit a lot more polished and stylin’.

image via apartment modern

In my dream the kitchen was underneath the loft mezzanine, much like this one. The metal work was dark and the floors concrete. This apartment has a lovely, rich dark wood floor but it gives off the same feel as the space I imagined.

image via apartment modern

Brick walls, wood counters and metalwork were textures that all stood out distinctly in my dream. This space is decidedly more polished than the one I envisioned. My space was a live/work space so the sink washed both dishes and dirty paintbrushes. The kitchen had to be less than precious.

image via apartment modern

This bold, mod-ish side board meets liquor cabinet was not in my dream. But, a unique accessory such as this is a bold punch of whimsy. It reminds me of the spirit of imagination, the dare to dream – to let ones mind wander and willingly form abstract ideas.

I must say that I can’t quite ever remember the world as a whole receiving a new year with as much fanfare as this here, brand, spanking new 2-0-1-2. One friend summed up the reason behind it well: ‘ 2011 was quite possibly one of the most awful years everyone has experienced to date’. Saying good riddance to those frightful memories, hurt feelings and worry was quite possibly the catharsis that many felt they needed. I am a self confessed perennial optimist and as such am refusing to write a blog post that looks back at all the things that resulted in sleeplessness, heartburn, weeping or wonder. Rather I am choosing to simply start again from the beginning.

There have already been and will continue to be some changes on cravenmaven.com in 2012. As you may have noticed in recent weeks – a lot less posting has been going on. This has been due to many reasons, amongst which include projects with Kinfolk magazine { do you have volume II yet?? }, taking things slow in all aspects of my life and also in an effort to produce higher quality content.

My love affair with food and words really came into it’s own in 2011 { thank you all those who believe in me and love my words }, so I am going to endeavour to write in the way I feel as that is the most honest thing to do. It may mean less posts but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless. Never fear though! I will still post the fun, silly things that I come across.

a sampling of the goodness i’ve recently posted on instagram

Also, if you just need more and more of me and have an IPhone, I HIGHLY recomend you follow me on Instagram. I am a somewhat prolific IG’er and post many pictures of what I am cooking or eating among other things.

I have some really exciting and challenging food related goals for 2012 that I cannot wait to get started on. So keep your eyes keen – it’s going to be a good!