About five years ago, I graduated from Cornell. I picked up my diploma from the economics department, took another walk around the Arts Quad, and drove 4.5 hours back to MA with stinging eyes. My undergrad days were over, I was cast out into the cruel Real World, and nothing would ever be the same.

But you know what they forgot to tell you in college? Life is even more awesome AFTER college. After spending Labor Day weekend at Cornell, I can confidently say I have no desire to go back to my college days.

One major change: you’re no longer stuck on a student budget. Now, I was never eating ramen for meals (unless I wanted to) or really strapped for cash (thank you slightly-above-minimum-wage chimesmaster salary), but I did have to be pretty conscientious about money. I still am, but having worked for a few years now and become accustomed to New York-level prices, many things in Ithaca that once seemed luxurious are now quite affordable. $9 cocktails at Stella’s? You can easily pay double that in Manhattan. Appetizers, drinks and an entree at Maxie’s? I used to limit myself to just a po’ boy because I was a um, po’ girl. Shortline Bus for $107 or the snazzy new roomy, wifi-enabled Campus-to-Campus bus for $160? You get free snacks and drinks on the latter; the choice is clear.

This change in perspective is especially opportune because at this point, I don’t know any of the undergrads on campus, and even my grad student friends have finally left the Hill. That necessitates paying for housing in Ithaca (gasp!) for the first time. (I suppose I could show up at a marching band house and sleep on a random couch, but that might be infectious.) Alex and I ended up spending $200 on a room at the Best Western, but if the Statler hadn’t been sold out, we might as well have splurged on a $300 room there.

So we trekked back to Ithaca on a whim, and didn’t really do much while we were there. If there had been more time, maybe we would have kayaked to the farmer’s market, gone to see Buttermilk Falls or hiked Six Mile Creek. But let’s not kid ourselves; all we really wanted to do was soak in Cornell and reminisce about things we did as students. Simply sitting in Duffield with a couple pounds of Wingz and Mountain Dew was entertainment enough.

The clocktower is still open to me with an ID card swipe. (Once a chimesmaster, always a chimesmaster.) I hunkered down in the practice room on Saturday night and tried to remember how to balance on one foot while playing with my other three limbs. There was a ton of new music in the files, and a burgeoning stack of proposed pieces, including the themes for My Neighbor Totoro and Firefly. With limited time and rusty chiming skills though, I figured I should stick to rehearsing pieces I knew well. For the Sunday morning concert, I played “Arrival in New Haven” and Bach’s “Little Fugue in Gm” with Jen, chimes advisor and longtime Ithaca resident. It was great to play with an old friend, though I’m sure it would have been fun to meet one of the current undergrad chimesmasters too.

One downside about college towns is that I get carded constantly. Seriously, I’ve never had my ID scrutinized so hard in my life. Part of the problem is that my driver’s license has me photographed with long hair and no glasses (they made me remove them due to glare), while I currently wear short hair and glasses. The bartender at CTB gave me a long, hard stare for about two minutes before finally handing me a glass of sangria. I swear, I’m not using a fake ID or borrowing it from someone else. Don’t they know that Asian women don’t age? I never get this kind of treatment in NYC.

The Avenue Q song says, “I wish I could go back to college.” I don’t. Not that I was unhappy in college, but it was highly stressful and I have a lot more flexibility now on how I spend my time. I’ve progressed in the last five years, I’ve done a spot of traveling, I’ve collected more ironic t-shirts. I have the means to go back to Ithaca any time, and the power to end the fantasy whenever I want to return to reality.

Now if only I could find an NYC equivalent of Wingz Over Ithaca.

Gastrocinephiles! So you’ve watched and rewound the opening scene of Eat Drink Man Woman multiple times? Your dreams involve recreating the timpano from Big Night? Then the NYC Food Film Festival is the place to be, celebrating the year’s accomplishments in food film, food documentary, and of course, food porn. In its fifth year of running, the Food Film Fest is attracting all sorts of attention from food media, filmmakers, and even Mayor Bloomberg, who kicked off the opening ceremony by declaring “Food Film Fest Day” in New York.

I was present for the closing gala, themed “Farm to Film to Table.” Held in the Varick Room at the Tribeca Theater, the city’s student filmmakers, publicists and chefs gathered for hors d’oeuvres and cocktails made from locally sourced ingredients. Chef and Food Network star Amanda Freitag spearheaded a menu of baked crab apples with pork belly in the core, butternut squash with curry and pepitas, and roasted sunchokes with red garlic. Most interesting was the edible dirt, a powdery concoction of mushrooms served with peppery arugula. The dirt, while tasty, would’ve been better if it were warm, so I actually ended up sprinkling some over a bowl of chili for highly satisfactory results.

Marion Nestle was in the house. She’s a professor at the NYU food studies program, and I read her food politics blog religiously. When she had a free moment, my friend Jen and I cornered her to introduce ourselves, as food documentary folks and as alumni of the University of Gastronomic Sciences. I asked her if there was any chance she’d be interested in teaching in Italy. “Oh they’ve asked many times,” she laughed, “but my teaching schedule is too tight for me to go over and teach an intense three-day course like that.” Allora, maybe next year.

Competition films ranged from 4 minute shorts to full-feature lengths, discussing everything from “How to” instructional videos to biopics of multi-generational restauranteurs. You could soak in Hangover Tacos, document the steps to a perfect sandwich in Banh and Mi, or sit down at The Big Table with the family behind Ronnybrook dairy farm. And for the prize? Winners came away with a slotted spoon and legendary fame among foodie film cognoscenti.

Jen has been video editing for Wicked Delicate, the production team behind Truck Farm. As you might expect, the movie is about a mobile mini-farm in the back of a weathered 1986 Dodge pick-up truck. The farm was on-site for the festival, since the movie was nominated for the “Best Feature Film” award. And much to our surprise, it won! So, here’s a hearty congratulations to the Truck Farm team; may the Truck Farm fleet grow and journey many more miles.

Back to the real business at hand. As it was the end of the season, Jen and her colleagues at Truck Farm had decided to give away the herbs in the truck. After Hurricane Irene, the flooded plants had recovered and flourished with an astonishing fecundity—the basil plants were now threatening to topple over. There were heaping amounts of thyme, sage, oregano and rosemary in the rear, wavy chive tendrils along the sides. So as the crowd headed to the first screening of the night, we went to work. Under a breezy New York night sky, surrounded by speeding cabs and skyscrapers, we began hacking with gusto at the plants in the old 1986 Dodge pick-up. Pedestrians and homeless bums looked at us with curiosity. The grassy smell of the herbs was overwhelming.

After working for a while, we counted the number of herb packets we’d put together. “73, 74, 75…hmm, that’s not quite enough for everyone at the festival…” But we were running out of steam, and the windy conditions made it difficult to snip and sort the herbs. It was time to halve the original packets. I’m pretty sure that some folks came away with about two sage leaves, just enough for a garnish. Sorry about that; if you’d like more, you can look for the truck in its usual home in Park Slope!

At the end of the night, everyone was treated to a make-your-own-sundae bar, with ice cream from Ronnybrook Farms. I was too stuffed to partake, but was happy to take in the sweet, sweet statue constructed from hard candies, provided by festival sponsor Daily Candy. I’m waiting for someone on Lady Gaga’s team to design this as an outfit for her.

Dear R.,

It has only been six weeks since that napkin-crumpling, tear-stained breakfast with you at the Z-7 Diner, but it feels like years have passed. My job was on tenterhooks; I needed to find a new one or soon join the swelling ranks of the unemployed. Murmurs of a double dip recession were getting louder. I had so many questions and too little time. What do you do with a gastronomy degree anyway? Why is it that the sustainable, “socially responsible” organizations are the ones offering only unpaid internships? How do I land a new apartment lease in the highly competitive NYC real estate market if I can’t demonstrate an income? I am a fighter, yes, but this city is one who fights back. And I was determined to go down in a Viking pyre of glory.

So I started reaching out for help. I talked to old friends’ drinking buddies, lingered to chat with the cheesemonger, shook hands at conferences. I cyberstalked people whose jobs I wanted in ten years and wheedled them into grabbing coffee with me. I emailed you on a whim because—I don’t know—it seemed like you’d made some valuable mistakes before, and you weren’t hesitant to talk about them.

Most of all, I talked to myself. I said that I wanted to write. You asked one innocent yet oh-so-probing question that morning that stuck with me: why should anyone read what I have to say? How do I gain credibility as a writer? After all, you don’t have to bill yourself as a writer to be one. Dan Barber’s platform is his role as chef-owner of Blue Hill; Marion Nestle is a professor at NYU. I let that one marinate, as I searched for roles that would give me a soapbox.

Along the way, I made some incredibly naive mistakes. There was the time I asked a teacher if he would serve as a reference for me. He flatly turned me down. After all, I’d written a publicly critical blog post about the university that he served. There was the time I got rejected for an interview with a publicity agency. Though they were impressed by my cover letter, after Googling me, they’d stumbled across the aforementioned blog post and decided I was too risky a prospect—what if I decided to “write an angry tirade” about them? It turns out that being a writer with opinions is perceived as a threat. For the first time, people were paying attention to what I had to say, and I didn’t want them to.

Things happen in stochastic ways. Maddening weeks went by, as I sent out dozens of resumes into a void of silence. I kept rewriting my cover letter. I applied for unpaid internships and jobs that I was overqualified for. They never replied. I considered going back to economics research. Finally, I sent in an application to work as a sales representative at W&T Seafood, a second generation seafood distributor in Brooklyn. When I met the manager, we hit it off with the immediate chemistry that children born of immigrant entrepreneurs share.

She thought I was smart and would fit into the company handily. The problem was, I wasn’t all that interested in sales. I did, however, have other talents that could be harnessed. W&T was looking to expand some of its PR and marketing initiatives, projects that I was eager to tackle. Would they hire me for a position that didn’t exist yet? We gave it a few days of thought and one updated job description later, I was officially on board as the business development and communications guru.

So there you have it. Kids, the surefire way to get a job is to interview at a company, confess that you’d rather do something else, and then work with them to come up with the perfect position for you. I now have a new role as the voice of W&T, a vehicle that allows me to write with expertise on sustainable seafood. I’ve learned how to negotiate a salary and how to identify companies I wouldn’t be a good fit for. I’m 3 for 3 with jobs that allow me to bike to work and don’t require dressing up. I feel like a winner.

This euphoria won’t last. But I felt the need to capture it—right now at 6 am—to bottle it for the next time I’m in a panic. It’s a potent homebrew of optimism built on proactive perseverance.

Feel free to take a sip when you need it.

Thanks again,
C

The event is open only to industry professionals, however for culinary students and restaurant workers, this is a dazzling opportunity to ask questions and get your hands dirty with a workshop from your favorite kitchen god (or goddess). There is also opportunity to walk away with a dash of fame; 20 rising pastry chefs are in fierce competition to win the International Pastry Competition.

This year’s theme was “The Sixth Sense: Intuition, Emotion and Experiential Evolution in Dining.” Lots of fancy words, to be sure, but there is nothing pie-in-the-sky about Grant Achatz’s determination to enter your psyche as a diner, as he spoke about the broadening role of food as entertainment.

The StarChefs conference is certainly smaller than other industry conferences (like the National Restaurant Association show), but the more intimate vibe allows you to dive in without feeling overwhelmed. There is a good smattering of equipment vendors, food suppliers and other merchandise to check out, but the real meat of the conference is not the Australian lamb, but the main stage presentations and workshops.

Want to hear about building a charcuterie empire? Daniel Boulud will enlighten you. Interested in making ethereally light macarons? Pierre Herme has traveled straight from Paris to guide you in an interactive seminar. Curious about the thought process that pushes a concept to a plate? Laurent Gras demonstrates visual storytelling through a fish eye and Picasso paintings.

More highlights and photos after the jump:

Demarle makes a fashion statement with Silpat non-stick bakeware and pastry sheets.

Slicing a 24-month aged prosciutto di Parma ham with bone for a silky, melt-on-your-tongue treat

Matsumaeya is introducing a new umami shaker product, made from dehydrated bits of kombu seaweed and other seasonings. It comes in a spice blend, a salt-like powder and a spray bottle that can be used to spritz dishes as they are finished for an extra umami boost that won’t cloy your original ingredients. The shakers come in five blends: original, yuzu, basil, shiso and curry. I sprinkled a bit of the plain blend in my palm for a sample. It certainly gives that savory boost, but without the chemical intensity of MSG. I’m curious as to how the liquid spray would taste on say, a green salad.

The roach skittered towards a cardboard box, and Cheryl raised her hand to smash it before the customers could see. The kitchen was in the weeds—we were short-staffed because the fry cook had been jailed last night for a DUI. Dad would stop by later to bail him out and give him another futile lecture. Meanwhile, the insistent beep of the drive-through sensor rang out. I scurried back to my post atop an overturned milk crate and pressed the speaker button. “Welcome to Lucky Phoenix, can I help you?” Just another June afternoon working at the family restaurant.

From the million-watt smile of Racheal Ray to the rock star trappings of Anthony Bourdain, there’s no question that it is a very good time to be famous in the kitchen. Americans may not be cooking any more, but they’re certainly soaking up every TV show, cookbook and blog they can find, as food takes on an unprecedented, fetishistic spotlight in pop culture.

But let’s talk about something a little less glamorous: Chinese fast-food restaurants. You know the sort, the dingy corner take-out joint named some combination of {Golden, Lucky, Jade, Happy} {Moon, Buddha, Wok, Phoenix, Panda}. The kind that serves ambiguously Chinese dishes from a 100-item menu, located in a building converted from an old Taco Bell. The kind that relies on labor from family and friends, the unwitting members of a Chinese restaurant fraternity open automatically to FOB immigrants with no English skills and an eye for cash. You walk past this restaurant every day, in Chicago, in Tuscaloosa, in small-town Italy.

This was my playground.

Lucky Phoenix was a unique addition to downtown Louisville, well-loved by the harried physicians and juvenile delinquents who frequented it. On Saturdays, Mom would park me in the narrow stockroom. If you lined the tiled floor with cardboard sheets, the makeshift playpen was almost as cozy as a blanket fort. Surrounded by paper bags, Styrofoam take-out boxes and 50-lb bags of flour, I would while away the hours. An overturned soy sauce packet box fit perfectly over a case of vegetable oil to make a child-size desk. This is where I learned my multiplication tables and read jokes from Reader’s Digest.

Cheryl, the cashier, was my playmate and partner in crime. We pooled our change to buy the daily paper, and sometimes Cheryl would take an extra copy, so that we wouldn’t have to fight over who got to read the funnies section first. In the afternoon lull between lunch and dinner, she taught me swear words, how to play gin rummy, and how to run the cash register so that she could take cigarette breaks. Now and then, she offered me a puff, but I politely turned her down. I hated the smell.

Over the years, I got to hear Cheryl’s story while stacking trays and filling soy sauce bottles. Her husband was an alcoholic who beat her; she regularly came to work with heavy layers of make-up to cover up the bruises. Her daughter got pregnant at age 13 and her son hid in the ceiling rafters of the restaurant’s bathroom, in a failed attempt to burglarize the restaurant after hours. Cheryl herself was constantly “borrowing” money from the register to pay her rent. All that didn’t matter to me though. I just thought it was cool to have a friend who gave me food stamps to buy candy at the corner gas station.

By the time I was tall enough to peek over the counter, I was a good cashier, efficient at taking orders, bilingual, and more importantly to my parents, I didn’t steal from the drawer. To this day, I still remember our menu numbers. One #5 sweet and sour chicken? That’ll be $3.91 with tax, ma’am. A #11 order of hot-braised wings? Those wings were neither hot nor braised, but no one ever pointed out the contradiction.

People occasionally ask, “Why would you sell food that you don’t eat yourself, that you don’t take pride in?” I’ve pondered this a lot. By catering to local tastes and expectations, we were enforcing current stereotypes about Chinese food, training people to expect a bland, middle-of-the-road product rather than showing off our culinary talents. But this was early ’90s Louisville, the kind of place where people ate at Bob Evans every night, where eyebrows furrowed when I asked for a map of Taiwan. (Did I mean Thailand instead?) Besides, we may not have eaten it regularly, but we did take pride in what we served. To this day, I haven’t tasted better fried rice than what came out of our woks.

Louisville has since become much more cosmopolitan, but back in the day, you just stuck to serving General Tso’s chicken. The smart folks were the ones who asked if they could sample what the kitchen staff was eating for lunch; we were always happy to share our food with the inquisitive laowai.

Years later, I’ve realized you don’t grow up in a fast-food restaurant without being ideologically transformed. Dealing with customers who ask for chicken fried rice without the chicken makes you question the intelligence of the human race. Seeing a homeless man throw food against the wall nearly convinces you to cut welfare and join the Republican Party. Discovering that your coworker is claiming nine dependents on his tax return makes you wonder if you ought to be doing the same.

And you, other Chinese restaurant kids, I know you. You’re embarrassed to let people meet your parents when they pick you up because they’ve just left the kitchen and smell like a Fryolater. You bring enormous platters of chow mein and egg rolls to every potluck, party and bake sale, even if egg rolls aren’t exactly baked. You spend your weekends and summers filling sodas while your classmates are at tennis camp. Your family hasn’t taken a vacation together in years because the restaurant must go on.

But as much as you’d like to hate the family business, you have to admit, you’re proud of your parents. They came over on a Vietnamese refugee boat with $100 hidden up the ass crack, the only surefire concealment method from pirates. They have now funded you through an Ivy League education. Ai-yah, what have you done with your life?

You’ve gotten out of this miserable racket, that’s what. Away from the hissing woks and fear of health inspections, you live in an urban bastion of liberalism, work a white-collar job and watch the stock market. Meanwhile, you itch to have a VitaMix blender and a walk-in cooler—cooking at home is so damn inconvenient. Then one day, your friend approaches you with this really great idea to start a restaurant…

April 30, 2002

Much to my amusement, this piece went on to win a Columbia Scholastic Press award in the “humor” category.

When I left Italy in March, I’ll confess it wasn’t so much a graceful departure as a beeline to escape. I was tired of fighting bureaucracy in the Living Museum, missed the bustle of a proper city, and had eaten so much cured meat that my sweat stank with lactic fermentation. Italophiles may weep, but I’ll say it anyway—I was totally over Italy and ready to abandon la dolce vita forever.

But like a mosquito to bare arms, I couldn’t stay away for long. Soon, I’d gotten my fix of cilantro and tacos, and my kilo-block of parmesan had run out. Luckily, this is New York and you can get anything here—for a price—so I began discreetly scouting for new dealers.

They said Arthur Avenue was where I wanted to go. It seems that while the Little Italy of downtown Manhattan has long been overrun by tourists and Armenian restauranteurs masquerading as Italians, this little stretch of the Bronx still retains small town character and old men leisurely watching football.

Transportation to Arthur Avenue consists of taking the B/D train to Fordham, a solid 90-minute trek from Brooklyn. The surrounding neighborhood isn’t the greatest, but during the day, I didn’t feel uncomfortable at any point. After you leave the station, walk about seven blocks to the east along 186th St, then one block south on 3rd Ave, and another four blocks east on 187th St until you reach Arthur Ave. The Italian community is centered around this intersection, radiating 3-4 blocks in each direction.

Immediately, American influences bleed into traditional Italian settings in amusing ways. Cheese shops and bakeries are interspersed with a smattering of Hispanic bodegas and sushi joints. A bust of Julius Caesar sits side by side with a framed photo of Obama. Catholic churches dot every corner, but rather than exhibiting fancy Baroque adornments, they retain the austere lines of a Protestant church.

Colorful, kitschy wall decorations abound, but my personal favorite is the rear wall of Borgatti’s Ravioli and Egg Noodles. Borgatti’s is a third-generation fresh pasta shop that has been operating since 1935. Take a peek inside for elastic spools of spinach or squid ink pasta, hand-cut lasagna sheets, and boxes of ravioli and manicotti. Then, inspect the collection of family photos in the back. Where else will you see a Japanese certificate of appreciation hanging next to an Albanian poster of Mother Teresa?

Naturally, the food is the real reason to trek here. The fermented fragrance of hanging prosciutto. Rainbow buckets of brine-soaked olives. Intricately layered sfogliatelle and hearty wheels of focaccia. In many ways, the selection of goods is more diverse than what I might find in Bra (my old town in N. Italy) because retailers immigrated from all over Italy. Definitely check out the nduja sausage at the Calabria Pork Store for a spicy taste of Italy’s southern toe. Many of the products are imported, but it’s easy to find fresh cheeses (ricotta, mozzarella) that are done on-premises. Produce, organ meats, and hand-rolled cigars can be found in the main Arthur Ave market at 186th St. Casa della Mozzarella is well-known for having excellent mozzarella (duh), but I was also impressed by the selection at Calandra’s Cheese. As he hands you a bouncy mozzarella ball, Diego patiently fields your questions and indulges your broken Italian as you excitedly gesticulate and explain that you recently moved from Italy. Also, there’s a diverse array of free samples, which encourages a dangerous flirtation with more cheese purchases. I mean, if this cheese is supposed to be aged, it can’t go bad, right?

Did I mention that the prices are incredibly cheap? I picked up a small basket of fresh figs for $1.75, and a loaf of lard bread for $4 at Addeo & Sons Bakery. If you’ve never tried lard bread before, it is dough fluffed with pork fat and studded with additional bits of lard that crisp up while baking, an unbeatable combo of porcine candy and bread. I wanted to top it with more salami and make sandwiches, but by that time, the bread had disappeared.

When your arms are loaded with all the bags you can carry and you’re ready for afternoon siesta, make one last stop at Cosenza’s Fish Market for some sidewalk oysters. Yes, I was somewhat skeptical at first too, but the oysters are kept on ice and turnover is rapid. For $1-2 each (a steal for NYC!), you can get a plate of oysters expertly shucked for you, and doctor them with lemon wedge and 6-8 different hot sauces. Cosenza’s, you know the way to a foodie girl’s heart. If you have a cooler or are feeling lucky, go ahead and load up on fresh fish, pulpo (octopus), and seppia (squid) from their main seafood counter.

It’s looking less and less likely that I’ll ever make it to the NYC Eataly. Who needs large corporate food malls anyway?

So you may have heard that the state of New York legalized gay marriage last Friday. Thirty days after the bill’s signing, homosexual couples will able to marry in NY, MA, VT, CT, NH, IA and DC.

The city’s annual Pride Parade was scheduled for Sunday, just two days after the historic passage. Cue thousands of signs being printed with the proclamation, “Thank you Governor Cuomo – promise kept!” A few marchers made not-so-subtle jabs at California’s repealed Proposition 8.

Revelers from all over the city and surrounding states amassed along the parade route.

Colorful costumes were the new black.

The Big Gay Marching Band was one of the musical ensembles who performed.

Bare, heavily toned bodies were plentiful too.

Young and young at heart marchers danced like everybody was watching.

Lion queens padded down the street.

Though not everyone was feeling harmonious. After the NYPD band paraded past, one marcher protested the previous night’s raid on the Eagle, a prominent gay bar.

This being New York, ethnic and religious groups were well-represented. Here, the most colorful huppah (Jewish wedding canopy) I’ve ever seen.

One young man is “looking for my tiger daddy,” while a Boy Scout troop leader rues his expulsion from the organization.

Congratulations to us all.

Living in New York is like spoonful of Chinese medicine—intense, acerbic, unmasked. At the end of the day, you feel like you’ve gotten better, or at least tell yourself that you’re doing better, because otherwise the rent is too damn high to justify being here.

I’ve been away from Italy for about three months now, and get asked now and then on whether I miss it. The short answer is, no. The long answer is, I can get all the burrata and olives I want at the Food Coop, along with kombu, almond butter and sunflower sprouts. So no, I don’t find that I miss Italy at all.

I do miss having an apartment that’s large enough to swing a cat in. Going from a transoceanic long-distance relationship to a 200 sq ft studio apartment has required a bit of adjustment. Sometimes I can’t believe he refuses to touch asparagus; other times I never fail to act in a considerate and socially acceptable manner. Kidding. I have my flaws too, but at least I can blame those on PMS. And despite the fights and heated debates where words like Trust and Dependence and Trolling are thrown about, we’re making it work. Bedhead and morning disgruntlement have now become oddly endearing.

On the plus side, cleaning the flat involves about three minutes of sweeping the floor.

The job is still exciting, and I never get tired of telling people I work in the film industry and sustainable food advocacy. For an added ego boost, I receive emails semi-regularly about what great work we’re doing, how I’m a ray of light that is transforming the food system. I feel lucky that I get paid to do things I would do on my own time, and that I’m meeting like-minded movers and shakers. Last week, New Yorker editor John Donohue thanked me for reading and promoting his book. No John, thank you for giving me your number…can I send you some pitches?

With my director away on maternity leave, I also have a good deal of autonomy and decision-making power. It’s a funny tightrope walk, knowing that I have just enough rope with which to hang myself.

We’re hiring an intern now. Funny that just four months ago, I was that intern. And now I’m getting profiled on Good Food Jobs.