"S is for Sad...
...and for the mysterious appetite that often surges in us when our hearts seem breaking and our lives too bleakly empty. Like every other physical phenomenon, there is good reason for this hunger, if we will be blunt enough to recognize it."
--M. F. K. Fisher, An Alphabet for Gourmets
I wish I had my M. F. K. books with me. I know she was married three times and had lots of lovers, but I also know she understood what it was to be a bachelorette -- how peaceful it can be, how lonely it can be. Who understood the effects of a full stomach on an empty heart better than she? Those moments of self-clarity were butterflies she pushed pins through and put on display.
Remember back in March when I asked you for help making my apartment feel like home? Little did I know, my subconscious was already hard at work answering that very question.
What does home mean to me? As I'm sure you could have guessed, it's not about the furnishings:
It's not about the bedroom or books, despite the fact that I miss M. F. K.:
It's not about toiletries:
It's not about clothing:
It is now and always will be about the kitchen, and my almost pathological need to comfort myself with quantities of food. The rest of the apartment looks like a hotel I've moved into for the week. But the kitchen, the sweet little kitchen with shelves that are the perfect height and depth -- the kitchen looks like the home of someone who's been collecting condiments for years.
When you learn to carry recipes in your hands, your heart, and your palate, you can always create a sense of home for yourself. And as long as you can be flexible with ingredients, you can do so anywhere in the world. What a comfort the kitchen continues to be for me.
I'm so grateful to my Pau for teaching me love through food. But I'm also grateful to the friends I have made dinner with -- to Miho for teaching me how to make gyoza; to Helen for teaching me to make bread; to La Doug for teaching me to swim in butter; to everyone I've ever watched from and learned from in the warmest room in the house.
In my head, I've invited M. F. K. over for to share a bachelorette's meal of romaine salad with hard-boiled eggs and herbs snipped from my windowsill plants. I'd serve it with a homemade Danish bun, sliced cheese and a glass of cold white wine straight from the refrigerator. Or we could have a simple tomato sauce filled out with canned borlotti beans and blanched broccoli over penne, spruced up with cubes of fresh mozzarella. Or a gigantic bowl of cold glass noodle salad with shrimp, lots of lime juice and cilantro. I'd carry the kitchen table out to the main room, prop the window open with a piece of wood, and light a couple of tealights. We'd sit in the squeaky wooden chairs, two ladies alone together, listening to Blossom Dearie sing "Manhattan" and watching the sun set and set and set into the Stockholm spring night.
...and for the mysterious appetite that often surges in us when our hearts seem breaking and our lives too bleakly empty. Like every other physical phenomenon, there is good reason for this hunger, if we will be blunt enough to recognize it."
--M. F. K. Fisher, An Alphabet for Gourmets
I wish I had my M. F. K. books with me. I know she was married three times and had lots of lovers, but I also know she understood what it was to be a bachelorette -- how peaceful it can be, how lonely it can be. Who understood the effects of a full stomach on an empty heart better than she? Those moments of self-clarity were butterflies she pushed pins through and put on display.
Remember back in March when I asked you for help making my apartment feel like home? Little did I know, my subconscious was already hard at work answering that very question.
What does home mean to me? As I'm sure you could have guessed, it's not about the furnishings:
It's not about the bedroom or books, despite the fact that I miss M. F. K.:
It's not about toiletries:
It's not about clothing:
It is now and always will be about the kitchen, and my almost pathological need to comfort myself with quantities of food. The rest of the apartment looks like a hotel I've moved into for the week. But the kitchen, the sweet little kitchen with shelves that are the perfect height and depth -- the kitchen looks like the home of someone who's been collecting condiments for years.
When you learn to carry recipes in your hands, your heart, and your palate, you can always create a sense of home for yourself. And as long as you can be flexible with ingredients, you can do so anywhere in the world. What a comfort the kitchen continues to be for me.
I'm so grateful to my Pau for teaching me love through food. But I'm also grateful to the friends I have made dinner with -- to Miho for teaching me how to make gyoza; to Helen for teaching me to make bread; to La Doug for teaching me to swim in butter; to everyone I've ever watched from and learned from in the warmest room in the house.
In my head, I've invited M. F. K. over for to share a bachelorette's meal of romaine salad with hard-boiled eggs and herbs snipped from my windowsill plants. I'd serve it with a homemade Danish bun, sliced cheese and a glass of cold white wine straight from the refrigerator. Or we could have a simple tomato sauce filled out with canned borlotti beans and blanched broccoli over penne, spruced up with cubes of fresh mozzarella. Or a gigantic bowl of cold glass noodle salad with shrimp, lots of lime juice and cilantro. I'd carry the kitchen table out to the main room, prop the window open with a piece of wood, and light a couple of tealights. We'd sit in the squeaky wooden chairs, two ladies alone together, listening to Blossom Dearie sing "Manhattan" and watching the sun set and set and set into the Stockholm spring night.
Love this post, and its sentiment. After moving from NYC to Colorado, cooking the food I was familiar with really did make it feel like home. And like you my apartment is pretty sparse everywhere else but the pantry and refrigerator.
Beautiful post. I agree, home is in the kitchen. *hugs*
perfection.