A few years ago, when quinoa was first being touted as the amazing seed that everybody loved cooking and eating, I gave it a try. In fact, I gave it many tries in attempts to be healthy and understand what the fuss was about. There were lots of quinoa salads, quinoa soups, and quinoa patties — both homemade and eaten out. The final straw was a disastrous attempt at making quinoa-stuffed zucchini; it was so bad it went straight into the bin. No matter how I cook it or rinse it off first, it still tastes like dirt to me — musty, kind of dry, and just straight-up weird. People have challenged me to add more ingredients to quinoa, to deep-fry it and use it as a garnish or to cook it in coconut milk, but I find it a bit silly to try to mask quinoa’s flavors just to join the bandwagon and say I’m eating quinoa. I can get quinoa’s magical qualities by eating other grains, seeds, or proteins, and I happily do so. I hate quinoa. And no matter how many times I have been tried to bribe with a free sample, I just don’t want to eat it at all. Sorry, quinoa — you and I were never meant to be. Now that I’ve broken up with you, we can happily go our separate ways.
I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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