the truth is, i’m not for everyone. a statement that’s less elitist than matter of fact. whether this is the product of a sharp mind or sharp elbows is another story. yet the fact remains: i’m no pumpkin spice latte. remain distant from the maternal comfort of chicken noodle soup. can’t recall when i was last described as bubbly. will never please a crowd like bacon mac and cheese.
no, i’m more like matcha: earthy bitterness grounded by umami. the fermented funk of pu’erh, dark and alive. i am the saffron bastani you didn’t know you needed: exquisitely complex, you’ll learn to love the way i stain. like whole wheat sourdough made from freshly milled grains, i am inconvenient, yet deeply nourishing.
i used to wish i was easier to digest. less prickly and angular. less myself. over the years, i’ve dug myself up from a deep well of inadequacy. i may never be a classic, but there is power in being a cult favourite. like a durian, i have my devotees. so for those who are willing to venture into the unknown: i am a cave full of aged cheese, quietly blooming. come plumb my depths.