Sharing stories of food stories we love.
When was the last time you felt shy, or nervous, around someone?
For weeks now, I’ve been experiencing a niggling sensation around bedtime—a voice whispers to me, “Put down your phone and read a book!”
I, of course, disregard the voice. Every night tell myself that I’ll start reading the next night; every night that passes makes it harder to start. I’ve convinced myself that it’s good for me, so naturally I fight doing it entirely.
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None of my sisters were particularly picky eaters as children, nor was I. My oldest sister would get a stomachache when she ate any airy desserts—whipped cream, mousse, and so on—but that was pretty much the extent of our “will not eat” list. None of us had allergies, and instead of memories of what we wouldn’t eat, I remember most keenly what each of us liked best. Two of us loved the creamed onions at Thanksgiving, the tiny pearl orbs coated in a buttery sauce. One of us like to eat slices of untoasted white bread slathered with bright yellow mustard for breakfast on the way to school. We all liked calzones, homemade graham crackers, and broccoli in almost any form.
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Guys, it is beautiful outside today. Beautiful! This time of year is marked by the most stunning sunrises—the sky streaked and splashed with colors that call to mind words like apricot and persimmon. In contrast, the sunsets are muted and calm, the tops of the trees bathed in straw-colored light as the surface of the water just beyond our street reflects the sky above: all soft cotton candy pinks and delicate lilacs.
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A year and three days ago, almost to the hour, I stood in the kitchen of our New York City apartment and thought about lunch. It was sunny outside, but cold, and I didn’t want to try and stretch the zipper of my down jacket over my very pregnant stomach. My husband typed away at his hastily built standing desk on the marble island. He’d been planning to start two weeks of paternity leave once I gave birth, but of course life loves a good PLOT TWIST, and here’s a good one for you: Five days earlier, he came home from work complaining of a stomachache that increased rapidly in severity, until he swore he had to go to the ER. I stayed home, heavily pregnant and silently (okay not so silently) cursing him for taking the risk of walking into a hospital waiting room with this confusing, nebulous threat of a virus hanging over us. People were just starting to throw around the words pandemic and quarantine.
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Yesterday I saw the first sailboat of the season. From a distance, the white triangle of its sail appeared against the bright blue of the sky; I stood watching, my heart picking up its happy rhythm, as the polished hull emerged into the mouth of the bay, moving slowly through the channel where the land narrows at the entrance to the town marina. The white sail looked so jaunty and cheerful: waving and flapping lightly as the ropes clanked and thwacked against the mast. After the dark, cold winter (METAPHORICALLY AND LITERALLY OBVIOUSLY), it seemed to be beckoning to us, calling out “Hello bright things! Picnics ahead! Sunny days and mint lemonade and bike rides in the warm evenings!”.
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