Two years ago, I was just a regular college student. I went to classes, did my work at night, and hung out with my friends on the weekends. I had no idea how much better life could be. It all started when I was out with “the bros” out in the Moroccan desert on a tame six-night bender/vision trip and did ayahuasca for the first time. As a kid, I never liked vegetables, but when that sweet tree juice hit my tongue, I had a culinary awakening. Eating leaves could be good, but I just needed to find a way to make them taste better. So I did something my father would disown me for. Next time I prepared my dinner of steamed broccoli and boiled chicken breast, I added … salt. I knew that this was pushing the limits on what I might be able to handle, but the words of the goddess who tried to sell me shoes during an acid trip last Tuesday came back to me: “just do it.” And when I put those mushy, green sprouts into my mouth, I nearly fainted from the wave of pleasure that rushed from my mouth, to my toes and back up again. It was a heady rush akin to DMT, or the feeling of almost cutting your ball sack open while shaving. The next time I pulled my baked brussel sprouts out of the oven, I steeled my courage and cracked some black pepper onto the tray. The smell alone was enough to send me into an orgasmic high, akin to an orgasm, or when you land the trash in the basket from across the room. Since my enlightenment, I’ve embarked on a gastronomic mission across the United States unlike that of any cook before me, changing one life at a time by introducing seasoning into suburban kitchens everywhere.
