Once, not so long ago, my life was saved by a meal. But not literally: At the time I was eating three deliciously prepared vegetarian meals a day, made with mostly organic ingredients, served in a lovely setting, surrounded by friends and other good people. Food was abundant and easy to obtain, as it usually is here in the western world.
Nonetheless, I was utterly and completely depleted. Exhausted, overworked, I was pushed beyond my limits in my position as head cook of, ironically, that very same vegetarian kitchen. There I was, feeding over sixty people three meals a day, six days a week but I had forgotten how to feed myself.
Other major life events were crashing though my life as well (death, divorce, major surgery, moving house, etc) and it all piled up like a bad train wreck one day and I simply put down my knife and walked out. Not too skillful, I know, but it was all I could manage. I retreated to my little apartment and tried to find a small piece of solid ground on which to stand, if only for a minute.
One afternoon, a good friend came knocking at my door. He lead me outside and down the street, past the mega-Safeway and into the little fruit-and-vegetable bodega on the corner. I didn’t have to do anything, just trail listlessly behind him as he filled his basket, which was good because that was about all I could handle.
We took the streetcar to his home in Mission Heights. He sat me down in his delightful remodel-in-progress kitchen with its ocher walls and creamy trim, the1970’s brown electric stove listing beneath wires dangling from the ceiling. It was early spring evening, pale green and cool and sweet.
He set a small bowl of almonds and a nice glass of chilled riesling on the table. Soon there was another dish of olives, some crackers and a crumbly, goaty cheese. I felt something begin to stir and awaken within me, responding to a kind of nourishment that was more than just food. I had not realized how dull and broken I had become. How stuffed with grief and anger and regret.
We sat together in the small dining room. Simple food. A pasta, a salad, freshly baked focaccia, the rest of the wine. A piece of fruit and a few cookies for dessert. My friend brought me back that afternoon with the most basic of things—a meal cooked with care and love and attention. To this day, I am deeply grateful.
Since then, I have tried to notice these simple gestures we do for each other, these small efforts to give comfort or assistance. What does it take to see what is needed and then offer it up? Is there anything more important? Sometimes, it's all I want to do: just show up in someone's life, sit them down and serve them up something refreshing and nourishing.
Is there a meal in your life that saved you, that provided you with something more than just some flavor and a few calories? What would you cook for someone who needed tending to?
Is it really what you cook, or even if you cook? I think it is the fact that someone is paying attention to us, that someone sees us, knows us, and cares. For however long we don't need to wonder if we are real. For me, there are times I take myself out to a nice dinner, just me and a waiter, and some good attention. It is always worth it.
view Daigan's profile
I think cooking is a type of caring, it's that time to make something especially for someone. My previous landlady would invite me up we'd share a bottle of wine I'd hang out in her kitchen as she cooked. (I worked a fulltime job and 2 freelance at the time I had no me time)
I do this for my boyfriend who hates his birthdays, so I start off the day with homemade scones then it turns into a quiet special day, no pressure.
view a6sinthe's profile
Yes, cooking is a way to care for someone; like a well-chosen present, it can also convey the idea that the giver knows the recipient well enough to know what he or she needs or wants and cares enough to give it.
I'm in a long-distance relationship that is dying. One of the many things I regret is that I never had the chance to cook for my love, to welcome him home to a warm, bright place, to make him laugh, and to serve him something to nourish his body and soul. It would have been a way to make him feel loved and to help him learn about me, and it would have shown him that I know him and what he likes and needs.
view STH's profile
very beautiful and eloquent writing. thanks for sharing
view Sassy in SF's profile
one of the things that has become most difficult to me is that whenever i offer to cook for my parents, they say, "don't bother. we'll just order in." for them, cooking is a chore to be avoided at all costs, and i cannot seem to convince them that it's something i enjoy, an expression of love and care, and also, admittedly, something for which their approval would mean a lot to me. maybe i could expand their limited palates a little, give them some appreciation for a flavor they would not otherwise consider tasting.
i suppose therein lies some fundamental failure in our relationship, which is a regret. i do, however, remember many of the meals i would have made for them if they had only said yes.
(my love, fortunately, lets me cook for him all the time, and he cooks for me.)
view thinkingwoman's profile
thinkingwoman, it kind of sounds like you and your parents are both trying to express love in different ways: you by cooking, them by relieving you of the burden of cooking! Maybe, if they don't live too far away, you could surprise them sometime by just showing up with something you cooked. Or you could cook a meal for them in lieu of a present on Father's Day?
Best to you, your parents, and your love. :)
view STH's profile
My mom expressed what you might call her maternal instinct (not to mention her creative instinct) through food -- she cooked and baked almost everything we ate, from entrees to bread to condiments to dessert. We had homemade everything. I spent a lot of my childhood in the kitchen with her, sometimes helping but often just sitting while she worked.
In other words, I have always associated food and love. But it was only after I (a) moved to SF and (b) got divorced a few years ago that I really started to cook and bake (my ex had done most of the cooking when we were together -- and sometimes I think that was an essential part of our bond). While I was splitting up with my ex I was horrified to find that I had no appetite. I got it back -- thanks in part to good friends who fed me simple, comforting food. I remember in particular a breakfast with my friend Monica -- it was just coffee, a mango, and yogurt with granola, but we sat at her kitchen table together, reading the paper and basking in the sun. And that was all that was needed.
view marys's profile
It is so nice to be loved. I, too, am going thru a funk - I haven't cooked in 2 months i simply order and someone brings it to me (and my family). I hope to be able to come back to the world of cooking but for now i do nothing.I am glad that things are starting to look up for you.
view luv2cook's profile
... what if you're at that point in life, where walking away from everything is about the only option you seem to have... but you dont see anything in your life that can ever be as therapeutic as that meal? Im looking for my soul meal.
view chusmabilly's profile