For much of my life, reading a menu has been an exercise in subtraction.
I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease when I was two years old. Before I could understand a menu, my mom handled it for me. Before curiosity, before flavor, even before hunger, there was a quiet process of elimination — scanning for what wasn’t safe, what questions I'd need to ask before even beginning to decide what I wanted. What feels effortless for others has always been more deliberate for me.
The ritual is second nature to me now, almost instinctive. Yet over time, that vigilance has also become a way of paying attention.
When you can’t take a menu at face value, you learn to look closer. I notice the details others might neglect, like the way a dish is described or the care — or lack thereof — in how ingredients are sourced. I’ve come to understand that food is never just about what ends up on the plate — it is about the decisions behind it.
When I came to Charlottesville four years ago, I expected to find a vibrant restaurant scene, along with the same careful routine I had grown used to — reading between the lines of menus, asking questions and often feeling like my needs were an afterthought. What I didn’t expect was how much the process of finding places that truly considered me would come to shape my time here. Even less did I expect that it would lead me to start writing for The Cavalier Daily.
Writing about food initially felt like a natural extension of what I’ve been doing my entire life. I’ve spent years mastering how to move through restaurants with a dietary restriction — how to direct conversations with staff, which details matter, which places are worth returning to.
Putting my experiences into words felt useful, if nothing else — a way to share what I had learned with others managing similar restrictions. But over time, it became more than that.
Writing for The Cavalier Daily transformed how I experience food altogether. From restaurant reviews to recipes, it has moved me from simply navigating restaurants to truly engaging with them — appreciating how and why things are made, who is making the dishes and what stories shape each space.
I began to notice the difference between accommodation and intention. The difference between a place that makes something work out of pure necessity and a place that considers you from the start. These differences, I’ve realized, are worth writing about.
Each restaurant and every chef I’ve reviewed offered more than just a menu. There were people behind every decision — owners who built something from the ground up, chefs who infused their dishes with personal history and teams who quietly shaped the experience.
My role, in many ways, has been to articulate and celebrate those details.
To write about a dish is one thing. To express the care embedded in it is another. I am part of a broader conversation — highlighting the people behind the food, the stories behind the spaces and the effort that often goes unnoticed.
In doing so, I’ve found a deeper sense of connection to Charlottesville itself. Yet what has impacted me most is how that connection has been returned. When restaurant owners have reached out to express their appreciation — for the attention to detail, for the way their work is represented — it has reinforced that this kind of storytelling matters. Not just to readers, but to the people behind the scenes.
Even more, these exchanges with the community didn’t stop at the written page. They followed me home.
Cooking has always been a constant in my life — a space where I don’t have to question ingredients or second-guess what’s safe. But in Charlottesville, my approach began to shift. What I experienced in restaurants didn’t just shape my writing — it started to influence what I created in my own kitchen.
I found myself returning from restaurants with ideas — trying to recreate dishes in ways that worked for me, not as exact replicas, but as interpretations. I took inspiration from conversations with chefs, and cooking became a bridge between what I experienced and what I could create. Sharing recipes with readers became a way to translate experience into something tangible.
This idea — that food is, at its core, connective — is what I keep coming back to.
Charlottesville is, in many ways, a map of my experiences. It is so much more than a collection of restaurants — it is a network of moments including everything from first visits, favorite orders and conversations that lasted far longer than the meal.
Now, as I think about leaving, I find myself returning to this feeling more than anything else. Not specific dishes, but the sense of experience that comes with them.
For most of my life, I thought my relationship with food would always be defined by what I couldn’t eat. Writing changed that.
What once felt like a limitation has become a way of seeing — one that has allowed me to seek, and help create, spaces for connection. And in the end, it has allowed me to find connections in places I once thought were out of reach.
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