Resetting the table

In March 2018, I threw a dinner party for my closest friends. It was a celebration of spring, of making it through winter, of fresh small shoots popping up through the snow, of the return of daylight. We had made it through the harshness of seemingly endless winter months, through the darkness. Let’s feast.

We gorged ourselves on rack of lamb with a herb-mustard glaze, fresh rosemary focaccia, zucchini butter (essentially shredded zucchini sauteed into a sort of jam), pickled rhubarb salsa, and polished the evening off with a honey yogurt cake and an “adult” lavender London fog milkshake. Guests arrived around 7, and the last made their way home at 2 a.m. I returned to the dining table, chairs now empty but plates riddled with crumbs, stains on the napkins, the last few slices of cake, half-full glasses of water, and a lovely centerpiece bouquet of tulips. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, or the exhaustion an introvert experiences after hours of entertaining others, but the remains of a scene where my friends had gathered and shared a meal was beautiful, and brought me to tears. I snapped a photo before cleaning up.

We still talk about that party, and the photo I took of the aftermath still holds a special place in my heart. It popped up in my Instagram feed two years later – in late March 2020.

I think we all know what was happening then. I reshared the photo, hopeful for a day we’d be able to gather together again. And yet…I’m not sure what exactly happened, honestly. It was a mixture of things, really, but equally slowly and all at once I lost touch with something that once made me so happy, that used to be all I could think about, that I wanted to center my life and my career around: Food.

Anxiety got the best of me, as I’m sure it did for a lot of us. I curled up under a weighted blanket and shook uncontrollably while listening to what officials in my area had planned, agreeing with them every step of the way and feeling comforted in a way my consciousness was aware of, but which my subconscious would not recognize. Restaurants were closed, scrambling to figure out how to make money enough to even stay open, building websites with their menus, navigating online or over-the-phone ordering, turning cooks into delivery drivers and orchestrating safe pick-up options with as little contact as possible. Grocery stores became one-way streets with stickers and barriers reminding people not to interact but to get what they need and get out.

I had just finished a personal challenge of cooking every meal for a month straight and restocked the staples of my pantry days before panicked shoppers took to the stores. As others had no choice but to leave their homes, I was welcomed into staying in mine, the dining table where a few years prior my friends and I had quite literally broken bread became my work desk. Wanting to keep others, and myself, as safe as possible, and to support those who had sought out new jobs after being deemed “non-essential,” I began ordering grocery deliveries, removing myself from the produce aisles that had long provided inspiration. All of this, mixed with the anxiety, and my passion for food disappeared quickly.

Meals became whatever I could grab that needed no thought, no effort, no time, no flair or frivolity – plain rice, tater tots, dry Honey Nut Cheerios, quesadillas or even cold flour tortillas, instant ramen. Years of reading food blogs, cookbooks, food media websites and magazines, of watching people cook on television, of listening to podcasts where chefs were interviewed, of keeping up on what was happening in the food world all vanished. Nothing interesting; everything heartbreaking.

As time marched on, or flew by (or whatever time did to make it seem like I had just hugged a friend goodbye in mid-February 2020 even though it was actually mid-December 2022 and I was gathered with family around the holiday dinner table once more), and the world began to reform. Surviving restaurants are open and at full capacity, friends have shared meals, visitors have come and gone, I’ve returned to the produce section, and my cat moved in. Slowly, ever so gently, food came back into my life.

In January 2023, two friends and I escaped the city, venturing slightly off-grid to a public use cabin that had no cell phone service. I downloaded podcasts to listen to before we made it out into the winter cold, and each night, as I tried to keep warm or keep cool (I desperately need to get a better understanding of woodfire stoves) while lulling myself to sleep, I listened. Samin Nosrat talked with Kat Kinsman about mental health, and with Hrishikesh Hirway about beans, and I. Could. Not. Sleep. I was impassioned. I stayed awake until 2 a.m., the notes app in my phone open, writing down dishes that I desperately wanted to make – something I hadn’t done for years.

A few items have been checked off the list, and it continues to grow. Cookbooks have been poured over, shows have been consumed voraciously. I’ve begun to feel like my old self again, and that the cloud of the past few years is finally being blown aside. My refrigerator is full of fresh vegetables, and my mind is filled with ideas and hope. I’ve had the good fortune to spend some time with loved ones and in environments that inspire and nurture. The result of all of which is here: a return, not only to food, but to writing about food. My hopes with this blog, if that’s what we want to call it, is to give myself a space to get back into food and back into writing. I hope you’ll join me; there’s always a seat at the table for you.

We’ve made it through the darkness. Let’s eat.