“Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious glowing cloud devouring your entire community. While they’re happening, they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on. And then the glow cloud moves on. And you move on. And the event is behind you. And you may find, as time passes, that you remember it less and less. Or absolutely not at all, in my case.”

Welcome to Night Vale

Greetings. Welcome to Foul Mouth Gourmet. You won’t find any yippy-dippy, highfalutin food here. Just straight up solid meals with a side of swear words. Or, maybe the swear words are the main. I’ll let you decide.

My name is Kellie, though that isn’t exactly what’s on my birth certificate. Born in Florida, but an anti-Floridian. I despise summer and flounce through our winter months with bright moods. My hometown in the Southwest is small, some say bedraggled, with an median age of 65 and more golf courses than grocery stores. Us young folk found amusement, though, in picnicking at a municipal airport watching occasional planes grumble and rise, climbing atop our high school roofs, bickering and laughing and growing up. I appreciate now the safety assured by such a quiet place, especially as my awareness of instability, internal and on the streets, rose.

I discovered the beauty of grocers and produce after a stint of severe weight loss, a string of poor decisions, and an urgency to rekindle my adoration for living instead of creeping in a shadow of internal instability. I remember walking into Sprouts a certain day several years ago, and just staring off at the mass variety of stuff I never knew common stores sold. An employee walked up and asked if I needed help. I told him I was just in awe. He peered curiously at me, offered assistance if I needed, and strode off, probably to tell his cohorts about this weird girl who appeared to be entering civilization for the first time after a long hiberation.

I moved to Tampa in 2016 after a study abroad in Sweden to finish up college. During this time, I morphed from a couch slug into a distance runner, and haven’t looked back since. Food is integral to training and not only nourishes the body for performance, but also provides a stress outlet and a place to channel a certain energy running does not burn. At first, I had no idea how to fuse running with fueling, and I still have no idea, but I’m learning, and trying to make the meals fun in the process.

When I started cooking around my family, the immediate observation was my propensity to swear. A lot. I dropped various colorful bombs when I was annoyed, when I messed up, when I succeeded, when I was confused, and for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Before FMG was FMG, mom bought me an embroidered apron with “The Foul-Mouthed Gourmet” stitched on the front. Though the styling of the name was slightly altered, the sentiment remained intact. They may have been startled by my sailor ways at first, but nowadays, my eloquent yet profanity-riddled vernacular charms those closest to me because it’s just how I am. If nothing else, I wish to relay authenticity.

I find most food blogs, while delightful in various aspects, rather same-same when it comes to the written voice. I don’t wish to hide my personality behind frilly descriptors. I curse. I snort out strange turns of phrase. Sometimes I don’t have a good explanation for a flavor combination other than “I felt like it.” I won’t claim to be the best, because I’m not. I can promise, though, that everything tastes stupendous, and with a toss of a penny in a good luck pond, you can recreate it for yourself, too.

So, welcome to The Foul-Mouth Gourmet. If you know any curse words in other languages, do share while we toss garlic in the pan and salad in a bowl.