It's as simple as this: I was right at home in the easy, tasty, extravagant foodie culture of New Orleans. Eating was my hobby. I fangirled over chefs instead of movie stars. When visitors asked me what the best things were to do in the city, I responded with my list of favorite restaurants. I didn't keep up with the who's who of society, or Hollywood, or anywhere really, but I sure kept up with where the hottest restaurants were, when they were going to open, and who was running them. I was hitting my stride - being in the know on the flavorful food scene in the Big Easy, meeting and working for famous chefs, and following food writers like it was my job. Life. Was. Good.

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     But when the opportunity to move to a tropical island presented itself, I leapt at the chance! I kissed my enchanting city and all of its unbeatable cuisine goodbye (along with my darling friends and family) with high hopes for embracing a new culture, and in particular the exotic flavors that came with it. 

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     As it sometimes happens, things didn't quite go according to plan. I discovered that it wasn't at all the foodie culture that I was hoping for. It was more of an "early morning, workout-before-all-else, exercise IS my social life, only-eat-for-fuel" kind of place... which is REALLY great if you're an athlete. Not a pastry chef. At first I decided to have an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. I tried hiking, (begrudgingly) signed up at two different gyms, and started eating sensibly at home instead of trying new restaurants every other night. 

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     After all of that I've learned that you can only be not-yourself for so long before you have to admit that you're making yourself miserable trying to fit in. So I'm going to stand out.

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     I'm A. Baker, and this is my act of Rebellion.