“These are really interesting! They aren’t what most people think of, though, when they think of food photography. The phrase “Food and Drink” makes me think that I’m going to be looking at overhead shots of sandwiches. These are something different. They remind me of environmental portraits, but instead of people, it’s food.”

I admit that I laughed to myself because I have a lot of overhead images of sandwiches. And cocktails. And memorable meals. Most of them aren’t portfolio worthy- they are excellent snapshots of a moment, but not exactly high art or even just good images. It made me start thinking about what I consider to be an interesting image of food.

I love to cook. I collect cookbooks from different cultures and when I travel, along with my shot lists I have well curated lists of markets, restaurants, must-try food items, and interesting bars. One of my first places to visit when I am in a new place is the local market. How people eat and what they prioritize for their meals says so much about a place and its people. I find this endlessly fascinating so it’s no surprise that when I’m traveling (or even in my everyday surroundings) I gravitate towards photographing culinary moments: spicy chilis in a basket at a market in Mandalay; burlesque cup handles at a bar in New Orleans; a young monk preparing coffee for guests in Burma. Just about everything I ate in India. I could do a poster series of images of my hand holding pretty cocktails. Or this image, of pumpkins on display at a local farm in central Ohio last fall. I loved the way they were displayed, as if they were objets d’art in a gallery. Food has that effect on me. I often consider dining to be a form of entertainment, of theater. Some people choose to spend their money on an evening out at the movies. I prefer to spend it at a good restaurant, experiencing the production of the service, the preparation, the tasting. Or even in my own kitchen, enjoying the catharsis of chopping, mixing, boiling, finessing, serving. It encompasses so much of life: it’s art, it’s life or death, it’s entertainment, it’s political, It’s an act of love.

So, if “Food and Drink”, doesn’t describe what I shoot, then what is a better heading? I came up with an initial list of phrases:

• Culinary Landscapes
• Moveable Feast
• Edible Environments
• Gastronomic Landscapes
• Epicurean Environments
• Culinary Tales
• Edible Narratives

I quickly decided against “epicurean”. Too fancy and it evoked something that didn’t seem to fit most of my images. I crowdsourced some reactions on a photography community site, and I ultimately narrowed it down to:

• Culinary Landscapes
• Gastronomic Landscapes
• Edible Narratives

While they  all describe food photography that includes location and story, I feel that they each emphasize different aspects of the experience:

Culinary Landscapes

• Focus: The interplay between food and its surrounding environment.
• Imagery: Combines the artistry of food with the beauty of natural or cultural settings, much like a landscape painting.
• Emphasis: Visual and aesthetic aspects, showcasing how food is part of a larger ecological or cultural picture.
• Connotation: Suggests a holistic and immersive experience, integrating food seamlessly with its environment.

Gastronomic Landscapes

• Focus: The broader experience of food as it relates to its environment, often with a heightened emphasis on the sensory and experiential aspects.
• Imagery: Evokes the senses, suggesting not just sight, but taste, smell, and touch as part of the landscape.
• Emphasis: The sensory journey of food in its natural or cultural context, often highlighting culinary artistry and innovation.
• Connotation: Conveys a sense of sophistication and exploration in the world of gastronomy, emphasizing the art and science of food.

Edible Narratives

• Focus: The stories behind the food, including its origins, preparation, and cultural significance.
• Imagery: Invites viewers to delve into the narrative aspects of food, connecting dishes to their historical, cultural, and personal stories.
• Emphasis: Storytelling and narrative, showcasing the journey of food from farm to table and the people involved in this journey.
• Connotation: Suggests a deeper, more personal connection to food, emphasizing its role in human experiences and traditions.

Summary of Differences

• Culinary Landscapes: Visual and aesthetic integration of food and its environment.
• Gastronomic Landscapes: Sensory and experiential emphasis on the broader world of food and its surroundings.
• Edible Narratives: Focus on the stories and cultural significance behind the food.

As I began holding my images up to these headings, it became clear that most of my images fall under the categories of “Culinary Landscape” or “Edible Narratives”. Much like environmental portraits of people, most of my images are taken in a larger context that highlights their origins or cultural significance. There’s often a human element, evoking the relationship that people and cultures have with food. I also like that both headings infer motion and not still lifes as most of my images portray the acts associated with food: dining, drinking, cooking, serving, producing, etc.

For now, I’ve chosen “Edible Narratives”. The focus on stories and culture rings truer in most of my images than the aesthetic aspect of culinary landscape. I suspect that I’ll keep trying them on as I continue to photograph my meals, markets, stalls, cocktails, vineyards, farms, etc. While I’m not always a fan of labels, I’m excited about this opportunity to use more intentional language when describing my images. 

A story as much about the subject, as it is about the photographer.

I struggle with portraits, especially portraits of strangers, because I am acutely aware of this duality. The person should be the story, but the photographer has inserted herself as biographer. There is awesome responsibility to tell the authentic story. I rarely take portraits of strangers during street photography outings because I don’t want to corrupt their story.

Although it is still very much a work in progress, this doubt eases slightly when photographing family. Their story is my story. There is already an intimacy that allows for a better chance of capturing the authentic.

My father spent his last thirteen years in Florida, living on the banks of the Phillippi Creek. If a person ever had a happy place, this was his. A boater, a fisherman, he found his paradise and enjoyed every minute of it until the end. Even when he could no longer walk to the bank, or cast a line, he could see the water from his chair and tell stories of his time on the water.

This image of my dad tell some of his, and our, story. The story of how much he enjoyed fishing and being on the water. How much he loved his family. How he was living, and dying, on his own terms. How much I loved him, revered him. And how photography and storytelling keep our loved ones with us forever. 

Terroir is an interesting phrase. From the French, it literally means "land", and is often used to define the natural environment that produces a particular wine. But to me, it goes beyond wine to describe the often undefinable qualities of good produce or a good meal eaten and enjoyed on its home turf. If you garden, and you have ever eaten a vegetable straight off the plant and still warm from the sun- that you planted and nurtured- you know terroir. To this day, I refuse to eat corn on the cob unless it's grown in Ohio. If you have never had Ohio sweet corn, you cannot be expected to understand the complete joy and nostalgia that is warm ears of Ohio sweet corn bought at a farm stand and reminding you of cicadas buzzing, fireflies on a hot summer evening and dim flashes of heat lightening in the distance. Of course, you likely have your own food memories, related to a time and place that are as much about the moment as it is about the actual taste. Terroir is this idea, of that ethereal quality that makes something taste better, makes it linger in your mind, and is rooted to a singular place. 

Nowhere have I ever experienced this feeling as much as when I was in Tuscany. Every meal, every glass of Tuscan wine was distinctly local. Every cut of meat, every piece of produce at the weekly market had a story that was undeniably linked to this gorgeous land. The steak at Trattoria Tacconi could only have been prepared by Angelo and Graziella. The anchovies packed tight in salt at the market. Spinach and ricotta gnocchi in truffle sauce at Trattoria La Grotta. And mascarpone and fig gelato at Gelato ti amo was a revelation.... and a flavor that I have yet to find anywhere else.  

As pictures and video surface this week of the devastating earthquake in central Italy, my heart breaks for the proud people of this region. The devastation of historic towns and the loss of life are hard to fathom for me, and obviously more so (and more painfully) for them. But I also know that they are of that land, that they are as much a part of the terroir as the crops they grow and the wine they make. They will return, rebuild, regrow.

Chi mangia sulo s'affoga.

And they will never eat alone.

My parents used to take my sister and me to dim sum in Cleveland's Chinatown and it's that rattle of carts and constant motion of servers and spinning lazy susans that I remember, not necessarily the food. It wasn't until I was older and searching it out on my own that the flavors and smells made sense to me and caused me to plan entire days around searching it out. Yank Sing in San Francisco remains a gold standard for quality, but a recent excursion to Fung's Kitchen in Houston and today's meal at Restaurant 8 in Cairo remind me what the true allure is. Dim sum, like crawfish boils, are social events. This is food meant to be shared. That energy that made such an impact on me as a kid wasn't about the food, it was about the loud, extended families gathered communally to pluck steamers and bowls from those carts and catch up with one another while devouring  shrimp har gow and molten xiao long bao. 

Most of my dim sum experiences reflect this tradition. Cairo is different. Restaurant 8 sits on the second floor of the Four Seasons Nile Plaza overlooking the always congested Corniche and the fast-moving Nile beyond. With its teak walls, velvet banquets and never-ending cups of jasmine tea, it is an oasis of calm. On Fridays, it hosts a dim sum brunch that has become a regular part of my routine here. No carts rolling up the aisles, but rather the restaurant sets up a buffet in the kitchen. The first time I came, I was disappointed. The presentation and quality were exceptional, but it wasn't the experience that I knew. As I put the familiar dumplings on my plate, I began to mentally cross it off my list: glad to have seen the beautiful room, but probably not to return. I was with colleagues and we were seated at a large round table in front of a picture window with a tremendous view of the Nile. There was a lazy susan and it was soon full of juicy Peking duck. Our conversation flowed from the Nile to work to our lives in the US. We walked together back to the kitchen for seconds. Then thirds. Other tables began filling with groups of friends and families. A quiet humming of happy diners filled the room as the staff silently moved between tables to clear plates and refill cups of tea. Although it did not have the trappings of the experience I knew, it was exactly the experience that I loved. Good food, shared with good people. 

My colleague, Deborah, joined me today at Restaurant 8. We talked about work, relationships, and doctoral programs. We sat in a corner banquet tucked in among several cushions and enjoyed dumplings, duck and crab claws. Across from us a mother was quietly and patiently helping her young daughter use chopsticks. The staff remembered us from our last visit and greeted us and walked us out with big smiles. 

(點心 ,is usually loosely translated as "touch the heart". It's a good definition for what an afternoon of dim sum will do for a person. 

When I read this article, I made it a mission to find the mural on my next trip to Cairo. After inquiries at the office, myself and some colleagues made the drive to Manshiyat Naser. There is a complicated history behind why this community exists, both political and religious narratives that intertwine and weave through history. But when you are here, it is hard to think of anything except the immediate assault on your senses: the narrow roads, shared by large garbage trucks, death-defying tuktuks, slow-moving horse carts, running children; piles and piles of colorful bags of garbage, two and three stories high in places, spilling out into the road and filling up the ground floors of buildings; and the acrid smell of burning plastic and decay and the incessant flies it attracts. 

There are NGOs at work here, helping recycling efforts. There are initiatives to build bricks from recycled plastics and glass and cardboard are also recycled here. And it would be easy to see and smell only the trash. But there is life. As the muralist says, the people here "don't live in the garbage, they live from the garbage". This community has found a way to sustain themselves. Beautiful children and families call this home. Shrines hang above every alley. When you emerge from the narrow streets at the top of the mountain you are immersed into the Church of St. Simon, an amphitheater built into a cave and accommodating nearly 20,000 people for mass. There are smaller, more intimate caves, too, that remind me that where there is faith, people will find a way to observe it. 

In the carpark, across from the church there is a building with a small restaurant and several floors of meeting rooms. Climbing the stairs to the first floor, a waitress unlocked one of the meeting rooms that looked out over the city. There below us was the eL Seed mural. Much like this place there is duality in the quote. Is he referring to the sun or to The Son? Perhaps both. It is appropriately titled, "Perception". As I sit in the setting sun, I am struck by how often my perception, and my perspective, are challenged here. Off to the left, on the horizon is Muhammed Ali Mosque silhouetted against the sky. Surrounding the mural are buildings full of trash. Behind me is a site of Christian relevance. eL Seed originally thought he was bringing beauty to this neighborhood. It was already here, but his words remind us to look for it.

But when the opportunity to take a once in a lifetime trip to India appeared, I realized that the investment I was making for the month-long journey was really a birthday present, a love letter, to myself. And while part of it became work-related, most of the trip was spent surrounding myself with the boundless women I was traveling with and the overwhelming contrasts of India.

I have always wanted to experience India, even when I forgot about it. Some time ago, I had tried to arrange a photography trip to Pushkar while I was working in Egypt, but it had fallen through and then life and other opportunities filled in and India was left in the far recesses of my brain along with other forgotten adventures and ideas. I could never have imagined that moving back to Ohio and reconnecting with a childhood friend would bring the opportunity, proving once again that you just never know where and when the great thrills of life will find you.

India is a kaleidoscope. It’s certainly not a monolith that can be neatly described. Mumbai and Delhi are not alike. The deserts of Rajasthan and the lush landscapes of Kerala are worlds away from each other. Even though I learned the history of the country while visiting Hampi, it was at the Jain temple in Ranakapur and in the landscape of Jawai that I felt the push and pull of centuries. I was as awed by the Amer Fort as I was by the completely solar powered airport in Cochin. I loved seafood in Mumbai and Kerala as much I loved the spicy curries and chaats of Jaipur and Delhi. I was there for a month, and I know that I barely scratched the surface of the country. I took over 5000 images. Most of them are not great works of art, but they document the places I experienced and the women with whom I traveled. Some of them take my breath away when I look at them because they bring back a particular memory, a scent, a taste, a mood. A few of my recent favorite images were taken on this voyage: a leopard who turned his back on us, the Taj Mahal reflected in a pool of water, a family looking out a window at the Amer Fort.

The trip was in February and March, and I turned 50 in July. Between the two, I was in Italy and Malta for work. Later in the year, I was back in Italy. At the start of 2024, the seeds I had planted in Delhi on that first trip began to sprout and I was able to travel back to India in February, almost a year to the date of my first trip. It was quick, a week spent in Delhi and mostly in meetings. It was an opportunity to show my colleague a bit of the city and eat extraordinary food, including a dinner at a friend’s house (a connection from that previous trip), even if we didn’t have much time for sightseeing. But I did set aside a day at the end of the trip for myself, and a guide, to tour the city. It was a chance to visit a stepwell and the Sikh temple and the thousands of people it feeds each day. An unexpected, and wonderful, visit to a cultural center keeping regional craftsmanship alive capped off the day. It was also a reminder of the density of population as we spent most of the day sitting in traffic thanks to impromptu visits by India’s Prime Minister to several temples in the area. The air quality was historically bad while I was there and the number of street children in Old Delhi were also reminders of the challenges that face a country of over a billion people.

And now we’re already two months into 2024. I'll be 51 before I know it. Time continues to fly by and I’m grateful to be here. I am recognizing that maybe the enlightenment that comes with “middle age” is the obvious recognition that I am likely closer in years to my passing than I am to the day of my birth. I try not to take anything for granted and I recognize that I’m blessed to have seen so much of the world- and that there is still so much to see. This year looks to bring another trip to India and hopefully travels to Ghana, Italy, the UK, Barbados, and Japan. In the U.S., I’ll be in Florida, D.C., New Mexico, and California. And I’m committed to exploring more here at home in Ohio. There’s an eclipse coming and it’s maple syrup season now. My neighborhood is starting to bud and spring flowers are close behind. I’m signed up for some photography workshops and recommitting myself to practicing more and interacting with other photographers. I love my camera, but I’m embracing my iPhone’s capabilities. And I’m recommitting to this website.

There is a Hindi phrase that loosely translates to, “when it is springtime in the heart, all the world is green.” I might be getting older, but the world is still green. There’s still so much to explore and experience. There’s still time to learn and grow. I’m so thankful that I made that initial journey to India. It reminded me to be me and always remain open to the possibilities. Even in challenging times (maybe especially in challenging times), I feel the pull to experience new places, and familiar places anew. I’m excited for the future and the journeys I know, and don’t know, that await me.  

Several years after my camp experience, sailing with my family on Chesapeake Bay on calm waters, it truly felt as if we were floating in the sky. It was impossible to tell where the water and the sky met. We bobbed silently in that vertigo-inducing world. Later, I read and related to “Wind, Sand and Stars” by Antoine de St. Exupéry:

“When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but the pool of nocturnal sky, for I was lying on my back with outstretched arms, face to face with that hatchery of stars. Only half awake, still unaware that those depths were sky, having no roof between those depths and me, no branches to screen them, no root to cling to, I was seized with vertigo and felt myself as if flung forth and plunging downward like a diver. But I did not fall. From nape to heel I discovered myself bound to earth. I felt a sort of appeasement in surrendering to it my weight. Gravitation had become as sovereign as love. The earth, I felt, was supporting my back, sustaining me, lifting me up, transporting me through the immense void of night.”

And then I suppose that life on Earth blocked out the sky. I don’t have other memories of night skies after that until late into adulthood. Life and love, and death, interfered. I changed jobs. I fell in love. I lost parents. I moved across the country. I had not spent much time in the Southwest before moving to New Mexico. Was it possible that I had found those skies that had alluded me since I was a child? From the first days here, I was captivated by the sky- pink and warm at dawn, the new cloud formations throughout the day, the endless blue at noon, the fire colors that swirled at sunset, and of course at night, when the stars and moon are the highlight. Even in the Albuquerque metropolitan area, the light pollution is minimal enough that the stars are bright and plentiful. And just a short drive away are rural areas that make seeing the constellations and Milky Way a common, yet still thrilling, reality.

Shortly after moving here, I attended night sky workshops during the Festival of the Cranes at the Bosque del Apache and the Very Large Array. I learned a few very important lessons that weekend:

1. It’s very cold in November, at night, in central New Mexico.
2. Even though I was willing and learning, I did not have the right equipment (and was reminded of this by the instructors often.)
3. Good instructors make or break a photography workshop.
4. Even without the right equipment and the bitter cold, I was hooked.

Contrary to the instructors’ beliefs, I did get a few good images during those workshops. I learned about kelvins and an appropriate white balance and the importance of a solid tripod. And while those photos are not my best work, I’m still proud of their beauty and the story they tell about my own journey in night photography. I won’t lie, I was intimidated by those instructors and their attitude towards my beginner questions. Once they believed that my crop sensor camera wasn’t up to the task (or me either, for that matter) they largely ignored me. I’m sure I could have been a better advocate for myself, but I was also content to work on what I had learned and, afterwards, I turned to the internet and YouTube videos. My desire to learn and improve my night photography only grew.

More recently, I participated in a workshop in Sedona with National Parks at Night. What a difference! These instructors answered my questions and while they also weren’t crazy about my gear, they at least assured me that I could still get great images with patience and knowledge. Sedona is a dark sky community, and the workshop was scheduled to align with a new moon and an early rising Milky Way. Every night we all fawned over the skies blooming above us while we set up our gear and composed our shots. We worked on star points and star trails. We learned how to compose during the blue hour so we could blend focused foregrounds with our tack sharp stars in post. When I downloaded my first set of images from the memory card, I held my breath. And then I cried. Tears of pride and joy and perseverance. Sharp stars. Composed foregrounds and interest. Dozens of exposures stacked on top of one another became star trail images I had once only dreamed of were there on my screen. I love this iterative process, that it is one of constant learning and trial and error. That the heavens are always changing and you have to adapt with them.

It’s winter again and my nighttime forays are limited, even when the skies are crystal clear and fields of stars tease me beyond the window. I still practice on my patio on the occasional mild evening and I’ve registered for another National Parks at Night workshop, this time in Kanab in May. I can’t wait to see what heavenly wonders await me.