My pants already feel tight. Each year, as Charleston Wine + Food approaches, I greet it with glee and dread. There’s something so seductive about losing yourself to gluttony in the name of “but it’s my job.” It’s only after the fest, come Monday morning, that I wake up in the deepest depths of self-loathing. Did I really need those chilaquiles post-shots at Proof? Did I have to hang in the Culinary Village’s beer garden that long to really “get” the story? Why are there crumbs in my purse? These are the tough questions I’ll be asking over the next five days.
But let me promise you this: I don’t eat all this shit for me, I do it for you. I do it for Charleston. I do it for America. In covering Charleston Wine + Food I have but one goal: to speak truth to power lunchers. —Kinsey Gidick
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