The orange cackled at me. It spat with pretentious scorn, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Business Guy who’s come groveling back to the creative, culinary world.” Two years of business meetings and academia separate me from my year-long tango with Europe’s gastronomy. I still recall the crunch of live and wriggling Scandinavian shrimp—sorry, PETA—and the divine simplicity of a Bavarian Apple Strudel. This past weekend I bounced around Berkeley, California’s Gourmet Ghetto: home to Alice Waters’ famed Chez Panisse—the birthplace of California Cuisine—and delights like The Cheeseboard Collective and Alegio Chocolate. I geared myself for this day. Armed with a notepad and a sniper-like camera, I aimed my sights upon the delicious prey, snapping away in soft-focus ecstasy.

But nothing could defend me from that damn orange at Chez Panisse. I sat at my table. The fruit glared down at me from its rosemary-lined kitchen counter perch. Maybe I thirsted for a drop of orange juice after a day of trekking the Berkeley streets or maybe the orange represented my lost love of food and travel. There it sat, angelically lit in the distance as a restaurant set piece. It scolded, “Look, but don’t touch—and definitely don’t eat.”

Yes, guilty as charged: I am a foodie. Like an addict, I needed my fix after a two-year cold turkey. So the whole day I feasted and photographed the food that crossed my path. That’s why I felt such a drawing presence to that orange food prop in the Chez Panisse kitchen. As a foodie, the orange’s citrus treasures intrigued me. As a photographer, the fruit sunbathed in a devine glow like the Golden Idol in Indiana Jones. And as a human, I just wanted what I could not have. Anyway, food is like sex. If you don’t like it nor want it, then you’re not alive.

As I yearned for the meal’s first course, I reflected upon the nexus of food and travel intersecting my life during the past couple weeks. A few days ago I gave a bon voyage to my friend who will intern at Restaurant Noma in Copenhagen—the number one restaurant in the world for the past three years. Like a moth to an electric bug zapper, I’ve glued myself to the TV watching reruns of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and The Mind of a Chef. And, of course, for the eight hours prior to my meal, I joined my guide Serena as she retold the stories and savored the tastes of Berkeley’s Gourmet Ghetto¹. All of this whetted my appetite for more.

Thank the culinary gods, I darted my eyes over to the right and spotted my waiter Ben marching forward with the first dish. In karmic fashion, he presented an orange salad as my first course. Oh, sweet vengeance was mine. I’ve got you now, my pretty, little orange; it’s time to feast.

During my meal, I came to a realization: food, you can no longer be a silent love affair. I will food blog again. You’ve got this junkie hooked, and its time to share our relationship with others. Anyway, what’s the point of food if it can’t be a friendly feast amongst friends?

Now it’s time to grab hold of that elusive orange and squeeze it into something sweet to share. Let’s snatch up a leftover bottle of Möet Chandon, pour in a douse of that orange juice and give a mimosa-style toast to a new year. I would feel privileged if you joined this junkie foodie. Sorry, Weight Watchers, my new years resolution is to pig out. So, be sure to frequent the Food category of this blog for more food, photography and travel stories this 2013.

¹ Check out Serena’s website GrassRoutes and the tour of the Gourmet Ghetto—well worth the knowledge and delicious food.