Be Better: a little slice of me.

Hi there! My name's Ashlee, with two e’s cause I’m special and my grandma thought I ought to have them.

To kick off my epic origin story, I’ll first admit I had no earthly idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. Ultimately, I decided on food writing, but it wasn’t an inherent desire from the beginning. At first, I thought I wanted to be a vet in the same way that little kids want to be cowboys or space rangers. There was no thought put into the years of research I would have to undertake, the competitive medical field, or even the cost. Hoo boy, the cost. I wouldn’t learn until much later, but college in itself is a trial even without the added stress of paying for it (because even when you’re not paying for it, you’re paying for it.) My father wanted me to be a vet, to be a success with money included. Mom just wanted me to be “better.” That was the word she used when I told her I wanted to be like her. Because in my 5 year old wisdom I thought it would make her happy. She told me “Be better than me.”

To share a little bit about my family, the Wilson tribe is originally from Washington DC. My grandparents were nomadic because of grandpa's job, but they eventually settled in Houston. It was where they lived and where they died, and where I was born. My 19-year-old mother saw freedom in my dad and then I was born. Sadly, having me, was the last thing they ever agreed on. Mom was an army brat, and although Her father (my grandpa) was the one who served in the Korean War, her mother ran the house (Grandma was as constricting with her kids as a shirt two sizes too small.) Strict as she was, grandma had a surprisingly open-minded appreciation for food from around the world. She’d tell me stories of shrimp the size of your fist. Grandpa would bring home food from different places or he'd make what we called “concoctions.” Where he’d mix just about anything he could find in a pot and offer it to his grandkids.

I’ve loved food as far back into my memory banks as I can humanly recall. When I was little, my whole family would go out together. We’d go to Bennigan’s, Chilies, Fuddruckers, Red Lobster after work, on holidays, after church, and even when mom had enough spare change for McDonald’s. Many of my childhood memories are like rocks worn to sand, but that post meal fullness has stuck with me after all these years. Not the feeling you get on thanksgiving after you’ve crammed yourself full of turkey, but the satisfaction of good food intermingled with hours of good company.

The women in my family are always buzzing about food. It's no wonder The Food Network has always been as traditional as prayer in our family households. I smile thinking back to the contestants we shredded on “The Worst Chefs in America.” We watched a woman in a poodle skirt try to brew something edible from a can of sardines. It was excruciating. My grandma suggested off handed that I should “just write about food” because I still hadn't figured out what I wanted to do with my writing. I was on my third attempt at college, and up until this point I'd felt like I'd been probing in the dark for an answer that had been right in front of me. I had so many opinions of why these people I watched shouldn’t be allowed near cutlery but I’d never even considered putting it to paper even once.

Why don’t I just write about food? Why don’t I make that my career. I love to write, I love food. Some things just work. I had a long way to climb to get to the top of this hill. A year later and a grandma short, I was moving to Nacogdoches to become a food journalist. It’s been 3 years since then and I’m now staring down the barrel of my senior year. I’ve successfully worn away the government’s faith in me as well as my faith in myself most days but I trudge on anyway and still I wonder if I’m “better” for it.