November 22, 2024

Food Is Love and Other Confessions

I am, occasionally, a cliché. I’m Italian-American. Holidays always revolve around food. And if I like you in some way, I will try to feed you in some way. Sometimes, this is literally—sit down and eat. Sometimes, it’s at a distance—like sharing a recipe.

Food is love. That is the plain truth, for me. I learned to cook from my mother. She never wrote things down, so when I learned, I did. But they’re not exactly standard recipes for a lot of things. Garlic, for instance, should be measured with your heart. Any recipe that calls for a single clove should be side eyed. And while I can tell you what goes in, it is rare that I can tell you how much.

I learned to cook chaotically, but—like I do all things—with my whole heart. There are a recipes on both sides of my family that I cherish. One, I loathe, simply because my one grandmother was possibly a chaos demon—a little bit of milk with no guardrails is not helpful. Neither is “one can of ricotta.” Ricotta does not come in a can. (Did I eventually perfect this recipe? Yes, because I’m stubborn—and it’s my father’s favorite. SIGH.)

But my gripes aside, I really do love food. And I love the ritual of it. How it is an act of care that shuts off my brain and lets my entire soul relax. Dramatic? Maybe. But true nonetheless.

The other day, I was having strange reservations about how deeply I show care. Why? Brains are jerks. And people can be jerks. And there have been times in the past where I’ve extended kindness or opened a door, only for the reaction to be…less than desirable.

Fear should never make the decisions, but that’s not always easy in the moment. Sometimes, fear is not a hurricane force. Sometimes, it’s a small whisper in your ear. And that version may be more difficult to combat in some ways.

American Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and I’ve prepped the menu (it doesn’t really change from year to year). I have been cooking the holiday meals for ages now, and I have it down to a fairly good science. (Do I make enough food to feed 20 people? Yes. Are 20 people coming over? No. Again: cliché.)

I cherish the memories of past years. I love making new ones, too. But I’ve also been thinking about what I am thankful for, which is probably a cliché too—but it’s something I do often.

This year, I have grown a lot as a person. I have made incredible friends and deepened old friendships. I’ve done some writing I’m really proud of. I’ve decided what I want and how I can be there for those I care about. I have grieved things, some mentioned and some not. But in the end, I am glad for a heart that can break. Because it can mend, too. And it has.

I’m glad for the laughter. The possibilities. The joys on the horizon. The care and the comfort. The community, near and far. And those in my life who remind me to stay loud and not small. Who cheer me on and cheer me up. Who don’t mind if I text small paragraphs or ramble. Who let me in. It’s that I value more than anything else.

I know that holidays can be hard. For lots of reasons. Sometimes, we feel alone. Sometimes, they are not cheery occasions. So, I will remind you that if I am in your life, you’ve got me. So you’re not alone. Even miles away.

That’s a promise. XOXO