Sharing stories of food stories we love.
I came across an interview this week. The chef, in discussing her habits and philosophy, said that “everything is cumulative”.
She was talking about health. No day is good or bad in its own right. Nothing exists in isolation. Every run we take, or good decision we make, adds up.
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I'm sitting here with a big mug of steaming tea. As it steeped, I stood, leaning with my hip against the counter. I held the honey over the mug, letting the amber liquid stream in for a beat too long, and my tea is sweeter than usual. Opening the fridge, I discovered that I was out of both cream (!) and whole milk (!). Sighing as if to say why must I endure such cruel deprivation, I poured in equal parts skim and almond milk. Let it be said: This does not taste as good as cream.
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I like to be alone. Or, to be more candid, I need to be alone pretty often. Growing up in a house with three sisters, a veritable menagerie of animals, and two parents, you get used to fiercely guarding your own independence.
It's funny how sometimes a day alone can make you melancholy, or it can feel like a gift. When it's the latter, the hours stretch out ahead of you, deliciously empty, waiting to be filled with any passing whim. You can put your phone away. You can take a long walk, and stop when you want to stop. Run when you want to run. You can willfully ignore lines of a recipe at dinnertime, leaving out the garlic because you don't really want four entire cloves in your chicken, thankyouverymuch. You can fast-forward through the parts of the movie you don't like.
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Where have I been?! Busy. Hugging my family. Sitting next to my dad, earnestly discussing work while he patiently listens. Watching my oldest sister turn from just her into a mother miraculously overnight. Weeping a lot of happy tears over said transformation. Laughing with my littlest sister (she lives in Maine and I have to absorb her physical presence when we're together, saving it up for when she leaves. I kiss her cheeks, I tackle her onto the couch, I hold her hand).
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I usually call my mother once a day. I mentioned that to a friend the other day and they looked at me like I had some serious issues going on. I just like to talk to her. She's funny and wise. She's interested and interesting. She has a rare ability to listen actively, quietly encouraging me turn things over in my mind, like I'm panning for gold, like my thoughts are a handful of sand from a stream bed and I'm sifting out the debris until a kernel of something true appears flat in my palm.
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