Most importantly, this is not a food blog. I’m not a writer, I’m a poet. That disclaimer should adequately prepare you for the long road ahead.
I’m Emily. I can’t smell, it’s called Anosmia. Most people have no idea such a condition exists but I was born without a sense of smell so I have no idea what I’m missing. It’s genetic! My Mom can’t smell and my maternal Grandfather couldn’t either.
I wonder about roses and shit. I worry something will catch fire without notice and I won’t be able to tell until I see the flames. Sometimes that actually happens.
People tell me that if I can’t smell I must not be able to taste, those people are crazy. I have impeccable taste though I’ll admit I’ve never tried another tongue on for experimentation.
I’m from San Francisco and I first moved to Portland, OR 11 years ago with my dog, Sweet Pea. I claim the mean sidewalk-less streets of North Carolina and the desert sand of Superstition, AZ as my most sacred homes. I harbor the deep sense of alienation that comes with being overly reckless with ones life; I still love people who were and are reckless.
I’m a constant fan of vinegars, bao, offal, applesauce, kale, booze, and poetry. Sometimes all at once.
You can maybe contact me - emilysusankeith at gmail dot com.
Maybe God did us a favor and limited our sense of smell to make life in those shitholes just a little bit more bearable. –Hallgrímur Helgason, 101 Reykjavík
“Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.”
― Flannery O’Connor