Sharing stories of food stories we love.
New York City isn't the sort of place where people just pop over for dessert, or to borrow a cup of sugar, or crash your Wednesday night dinner if they smell brown butter and sautéed mushrooms wafting down the stairwell.
I've lived in all sorts of places where casual near-cohabitation was the norm. Summers in an open tent at camp in Vermont, a few months doubled up in bunk beds in a lakefront house in New Hampshire, and growing up in a sprawling farmhouse with 3 sisters.
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Say it: cake. You picture layers of sugared buttercream. Forkfuls of tender, delicate vanilla-scented crumb. Or deep, dark, intensely rich chocolate ribboned with fudge frosting and a shower of chocolate sprinkles. Wax candles sparkling. The words happy birthday lettered in script. Celebration. Sneaking bites of dense, cold cake in the morning when the icing has crystallized, the sugar gritty between your teeth.
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Long, hot summer days are an ideal time to spend at the farm. The corn is high and the soybean fields are dark green and heavy with leaves. A quiet calm hangs heavily in the air around 5 P.M, hushing the crickets and birdsong and faraway buzzing of tractors that hum all day long. The sun starts to sink and every acre is burnished with gold.
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I've been thinking about the gentle ways people in love treat each other: the way they light up quietly when the other walks in the room, or how they remember the other's coffee order.Where does it all go? If it isn't captured in a letter, or a song, or a hastily scribbled note left on the kitchen counter in the morning, it dissipates. You might never know how someone glances sideways at you during dinner or notices how you twist your fingers when you're nervous.
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Where do you go for comfort? Is it a coffee shop, corner table, foamy latte in a chipped mug? I picture you taking a long run: following the same well-traversed turns and trails, your thoughts slowly slipping away as the miles pass, yielding to sweat and exertion and the tinny music on your headphones.
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