Had She Come Undone?
Sharing some fiction writing in this week's newsletter. Meet Molly. A storm in the distance. A glimpse of next month’s full moon. A future disaster.
Food For Thought.
When I was young, I found the notion of Being A Writer more romantic than Actually Writing. It felt like a performance, a hollow act of identity, more answering a call than a calling. These days, it’s more like a necessary unravelling. A way to understand myself and the thoughts that occupy my mind. Much like cooking, you need good ingredients, the right tools, space to do it in – any space will do – and to have experienced some of life.
Each week I openly share my thoughts and personal histories. But I've always decided against sharing anything more creative, for fear it didn't fit into the 'theme' of food nostalgia or musings on meals. But like my life is a mess of cooking, eating, writing and reading, so too are the words I pen. Whether they are fictional or not. So below is the beginnings of something. An unfinished recipe. A TBC on what this tastes like. A first-go in the test kitchen. Meet Molly. And feel free to let me know what you think.
Thick cuts of sourdough: lightly toasted, heavily buttered. Egg yolks the colour of orange juice whisked, all salt-and-pepper-flecked, and added to a wide pan crackling with butter. Medium heat. A wooden spatula to coax the edges. Heat turned off before they set, then dispensed into a small bowl. Finely chopped chives stirred in at the last minute. Toast cut in half to dip, because the eggs never sit on top. They are the warm sea for bread and butter to dive into.
Molly eats her eggs, reads yesterday’s paper and ponders on her hangover. Meanwhile an entire scene is being played out in the flat above her. Doors slam, shouts echo and then (even worse), silence reigns. Having never met her neighbours – other than a few polite nods and smiles – Molly decides not to pass judgement on the argument. When was the last time she screamed at someone? Or was screamed at? When was the last time she screamed at all?
Molly’s closest friends and family would never describe her as passive. When in the company of people she trusted, Molly could be actively moody, actively joyous, actively loving and actively obsessive. They might throw in selfish too. But passive was not a word Molly had ever thought to describe herself with. Which she often did (describe herself, that is), whether it was in Instagram captions, dating profiles, job applications or on the phone to Ivy, the mirror to her imperfect, misguided and at times ridiculous reflection.
You see, Molly is a cabin in the middle of nowhere. A storm in the distance. A glimpse of next month’s full moon. A future disaster. One that devastates herself first, then others. And ricochets. You’d understand that if you spent five minutes in a room with her. All of these things add up to the sum of her being: a slowness which inevitably accelerates – but once active, will wane with time. Becoming part of Molly’s world meant joining the cycle. An endless spin that speeds up and down, but never stops.
You’ll soon come to understand what this all really means, in the context of Molly’s life – or at least the lives which surround her – but for now, all you need to know is that Molly was blissfully ignorant of her shortcomings. Or how she affected other people. Perhaps certain notions of this would come to light when she watched tv programmes where characters with whom she resonated reflected back her behaviour; but she rarely let this feeling linger for too long. These shows were a means of escape – removing her from real life and offering her ways to live out alternative realities in carefully constructed narratives.
She thought about screaming for a second. Then decided against it. What would the neighbours think? Instead she began to cook, opening the window to let the breeze roll in. The city was slick; the sky a bruised peach. Pearlescent in places, yet a darkness simmered. She was sure that somewhere beneath that soft surface lay a bed of gold. But not today. An old song – Dust – echoed in her ears. When we were young, I lost you to the sun. When we were young, you watched me come undone. Had she come undone?
Recipes-not-recipes™️
After a gallery opening and two large classes of red wine, I stood for 10 minutes longer than necessary in Tesco, calculating any number of recipes I could either make or quick-and-easy replacements. At various points of this visit I picked up "fresh" (sorry but Tesco is no Italian deli, you know) tagliatelle, a tub of tomato and mascarpone sauce, a rotisserie chicken, sardines, gnocci and a jar of less-than-average red pesto. It was all a bit much, so I put down everything but the pasta and sardine, grabbed some sweet little tommies and a few lemons and went home to make pasta con sarde with zero recipe.
I chopped three cloves of garlic super fine and the white ends of a spring onion bunch, halved the cherry tomatoes and peeled big chunks of lemon zest (probably half the lemon). I heated up a big glug of olive oil plus all the oil in the sardine tin on a medium heat and added the garlic, spring onion, a big pinch of red chilli flakes and the lemon zest. I liked how the garlic was almost quick-confit, so I added a little more oil to make sure it didn't burn. Next the tomatoes went in and the lid went on. Five minutes later, the tomatoes were starting to go soft; I tasted and added a nice big pinch of salt and a few twists of cracked black pepper. Tagliatelle bubbled for two minutes. I broke up the sardine fillets into chunks and added to the tomatoes. Once the tagliatelle was soft, I used tongs to transfer from the pasta pot, so some of the starchy water would emulsify the sauce. Finally some halved olives and the tops of the spring onion finely chopped. Zero parm needed because the salt coming from the olives and the sardines was plenty enough. But a big drizzle of extra v never hurt anyone.
Leftovers.
Please can someone listen to the entire second season of To Live And Die In LA in one go like me so we can discuss?
Korean cooking is all about fermenting and leaving things to rest. I loved reading about @kimchara_eats halmoni’s (Korean for grandma) 20 year aged gukganjang (soup soy sauce).
Speaking of fermentation, I loved Eric Kim’s title for NYT Cooking: “Think Of Kimchi As A Verb”.
Willing a heatwave to return so I can just make this snack plate my dinner every night.
Ahead of her new novel being published, I’m back to being obsessed with Sally Rooney. I really enjoyed this profile on her in Vogue.
Why do American grocery stores still have an ‘ethnic' aisle’, Priya Krishna asks?
More oyster porn by Junya Masaki.
I was super proud to find my newsletter and name in print in the September issue of Harper’s Bazaar. Thank you Helena Lee for including me in such good company (have you subscribed to Tahmina Begum’s The Aram?)