As a child, I loved this game called ‘connect the dots’. With my pencil, I would go from number to number to slowly discover the picture behind them. As I’m getting older, I’ve noticed that many people live their lives as if it’s nothing more than connecting the dots: finish school, get a degree, get married, buy a house, have children, and so on. And by the time they are sixty-something and are ready to retire, they have no idea what they have done with their life, who they are and who the person is they are living with.

Because of this, I sometimes feel that others only want to hear if I’ve reached the next dot already. And I’m not so sure what to think about that. Especially, since things don’t go as quickly as they’re supposed. That is, according to the norms of society. For me, however, things are going exactly as they need to. Sure, it took some time to learn to accept this. But I’m glad I did. And I’ve decided that I no longer accept this strange way of looking at life. Life is not just about reaching the next dot. Why should it? When you see life as a game of ‘connect the dots,’ the last dot is death. Then the game has come to an end. What kind of game is that? But more importantly, is that how you want to look back on your life when you are there? Like you’ve just checked things off, rushing from one thing to the next? Or do you want to remember what happened in between?

This blog is about what happens while I travel between the dots.

I’m a late twenty-something, living in The Netherlands. For a very long time, I didn’t care for it. I was born in the West, and while growing up, I was too busy reading books to be aware of my surroundings. If I had a quiet place to read, I was happy. I spent my secondary school years in the North. We moved to a little town when I was ten. I thought it would be exciting. But as I grew up, I found out it wasn’t. So I started dreaming of faraway places, as far away as possible, and if it were up to me, I would spend the rest of my days anywhere but this small country in Northwestern Europe.

When I was 19, I escaped small-town life. I moved two hundred kilometres away to attend university, the first step in achieving my dream. From there, I ventured out to explore the world. At first, by dissecting my new home town. I rode my bike for hours, discovering new places while learning to connect the dots. Always a map in my bag in case I get lost. After a year of navigating through my city, I travelled to France to stay in a monastery in Taizé for a month. Getting there wasn’t as exciting as one might hope: I took a bus to the bus station, where I got on another bus that took me directly to Taizé in about twelve hours. Six months later, in about twelve hours, I found myself halfway around the world, on my way to Manilla, another step in achieving my dream.

In 2011, I met the love of my life. After just three months, I told him about my dream of travelling to faraway places, as far away as possible. At the time, it wasn’t his dream. But he embraced mine, and it grew on him. Eighteen months later, we left our home with a one-way ticket to explore the world. And after eight months and three days, we returned to this small country I never really cared for living in.

Years later, this country has grown on me. I now quite enjoy living here, in this city with a population of only 340.000, in a small country in Northwestern Europe. A big part of that process was learning to appreciate and, more importantly, to accept what I have. But mostly, it was about finding a purpose in life. I like so many things and have so many interests that it took me a while. But after twenty-something years, I think I have figured it out. And, to my surprise, it isn’t roaming the world forever. At the moment, I enjoy just being at home and exploring my city once more.

I’ve always loved cooking, baking, and trying new recipes. In a way, it is a form of exploring the world. But ever since we left to wander around the world, it has become a necessity. Only two weeks into our adventure, I  got a severe case of Delhi belly, which turned into a gastro-intestinal infection, which turned into food intolerances. For the following years, I no longer tolerated plants from the allium family (garlic, onion, scallion, shallot, leek, chives) or mushrooms. In 2017, my intolerances became worse. For six months, I was happy if I made it from the bed to the couch. That was all the energy I had for the day. There was hardly any food left that wouldn’t cause pain in my intestines. And there was no medical explanation for it. So when all test results came back negative, I took matters into my own hands and made an appointment with an orthomolecular dietitian. I was to follow an elimination diet and would avoid gluten, dairy sugar, and fructans for the next couple of months. By now, I have established a list of foods I tolerate in small quantities or cannot eat at all. And I am no longer in pain, which is the most important thing. Most of the time, these restrictions don’t bother me. But when I’m invited for dinner by a friend or relative, sheer panic kicks in, with them.

To help my friends and family out, I decided to share my recipes in this online journal. And I hope that, along the way, it will also help anyone who recently found out they do not tolerate alliums. Because while I was exploring this new way of cooking, I found out it isn’t always as simple as leaving them out. Most food becomes plain and tasteless. And I couldn’t get through life happily by eating dull food. And since you’ve found my website, you probably don’t either.

On my journey between the dots, I do more than cooking and baking. So there will be other stories as well. About travelling. About everyday life. Perhaps even about the dots. Feel free to wander around, and share your story as well. I hope you enjoy your time here.