Though the tourist destination boasted a range of attractions when I visited as a seven-year old, what excited me most was a visit to a tavern that made buttermilk waffles as big as dinner plates. Served on the side was syrup that came already warm and in a smooth porcelain jug. The jug was heavy in my small hands. Its weight, combined with the anticipation of that first buttery bite, resulted in my shorts, my brother’s shirt, and my waffles getting covered in the sweet, sticky goo.

It didn’t matter. I was in a tavern built in the 18th century, enjoying waffles that were supposedly based on a recipe nearly as old.

I had found my happy place.

I’ve visited many places around the world since that trip, and much has changed. No one forces me into cargo shorts or silly hats, and I’m responsible for my sunscreen application.

But what hasn’t changed is my love of food and history, spurred by those waffles in that historic town. This love inspired a master’s dissertation in medieval Japanese and English monastic food practices. It helped me understand my adopted home country of England. It’s informed the way I write historical fiction and narrative non-fiction.

Food and history are the avenues by which I explore the world, its people, and their stories.