The ABs that made this AB

Alton Brown and Anthony Bourdain shaped me. I think that's a good thing?

In most facets of my life I’m Annabelle.

Not Anna. Or Anne. Or Ann.

My parents never gave me a nickname. I like to think they wanted me to be my full, expansive self. Looking back, they were probably too tired to get creative.

In TV productions at Dunbar Middle, Mrs. Carlson couldn’t squeeze “Annabelle” on the chart where we tracked who was working camera 1 and camera 2, so she made me A-belle. A-belle fit in.

When I signed up for AOL, I was abelle49. In college, I was abelle49@ufl.edu. On Instagram, I’m abellewrites.

When our first family/friends to have children had a daughter, she called me AB.

AB.

Even shorter. Even sweeter.

Two of my earliest culinary influences were also ABs.

Back at ufl.edu (pronounced: you-fil-ee-doo), when Cox Cable started carrying Food Network, I met Alton Brown. I studied his “Good Eats” the way I should’ve been studying organic chemistry. I made his macaroni and cheese, his meatloaf, his semi-instant pancakes. I learned the importance of patience and technique in cooking, how those things mattered far more than a recipe.

As a kid, I loved Julia Child and Graham Kerr. But this AB was — a nerd. Like me. I loved him even more.

After ufl.edu, I took a year to travel before applying to medical schools. I spent a month backpacking through Europe with a couple girlfriends. I took Anthony Bourdain’s “A Cook’s Tour,” along with my dog-eared copy of “Let’s Go Europe” to keep me company. I fell in love again.

This AB showed me how to connect through food. He taught me not to be ashamed of the fishy, funky smells that emanated from my mother’s kitchen. To cherish them for what they were: her edible journeys back to her Manila home.

This AB taught me to embrace empathy. To travel not just to be there but to absorb and understand.

I came back from Europe and checked out “Kitchen Confidential” from the Lee County Library. And then I checked it out again. And again. (and again.) Until I finally broke down and bought my own copy.

With this AB’s voice in my head, I sent off a few dream medical school applications — if the University of Hawai’i had taken me, I may not be writing this — I accepted my rejections, and I started working in restaurants.

It wasn’t about the drugs or hedonism for me, though after back-to-back 12-hour doubles, I understood how/why they’d come into play. It was about having a task, seeing it to completion, then getting that same exact task and trying to do it better/faster/tastier. It was about taking those techniques the first AB taught me and applying them quickly and efficiently, until they ingrained themselves into my muscles and could be done with no thinking whatsoever.

That’s what it was about: not reading, not studying, not balancing chemical equations.

The second AB, may he rest in power, has a movie out about his life, “Roadunner.” I’ve heard I’ll need to bring a box of tissues when I see it. My plan is to start the day with a “Good Eats” marathon to prime my AB-loving soul with something tasty and bright, then to slug a shot or two of pisco before taking in “Roadrunner.”

The ABs that shaped this AB looked nothing like me. They were old white men, back when everything was old white men. But they had soul. They seemed, at least, to care. They haven’t (yet) been canceled for anything horrifying.

When my friend’s daughter first called me AB, my instincts told me to correct her, to tell her it’s Annabelle, three syllables, nine letters. But being an AB puts me in great company. It’s a different facet of my life. One I’m happy to embrace.

Over at The News-Press

I wrote about Rumrunners pending closure in Cape Harbour this week, as well as a Fort Myers Beach restaurant named No. 1 in the U.S. And I helped my colleague Jan Waddy direct readers to some of our favorite Key lime pies from around the Sunshine State.

Our Taglish cuss word of the day

Pakshet (pok-shit): For those even less familiar with Tagalog than I am, native speakers tend to transpose their Fs and Ps. Thus, a simple and common U.S. phrase, “fucking shit,” becomes pakshet! It’s usually an interjection. As my mom would say, “Pakshet! You’re three minutes late, hayop ka!” It can also be used as a more direct insult, “Pakshet ka na!” Or “You really are a piece of fucking shit!”