It started, as most things do, with a tiny pair of googly eyes.
If you had told my 18-year-old self—who believed that “real chefs” don’t play with their food—that I would be packing bento boxes shaped like sleeping bears, she would have rolled her eyes so hard she’d have sprained something. My Food Seems To Be Very Cute
That was three years ago. Today, I can’t make a bowl of oatmeal without turning the banana slices into little moons with faces. My pancakes have permanent, syrup-based grins. I once spent twenty minutes carving a bell pepper into a dragon whose only job was to guard my hummus. It started, as most things do, with a
I didn’t eat it. I laughed. I took a picture. And then, a strange thing happened: I felt better. as most things do