A few kind subscribers have asked how they can send some £ for the content I put out. I really appreciate this and have zero expectations, but if anyone did want to do so, here is a link to my Kofi page. I promise to only use the money for very nice food related moments!
I’m savouring a plate of fried eggs at Towpath Cafe. Crispy and buttery, the yolks spill out onto the plate. Curled curry leaves and tiny mustard seeds bring a gentle heat. And I’m taking every opportunity to mop up the butter, the oil, the spices, so the bread is imprinted with the taste and it can linger a little longer. I eat around the yolks, saving the best until last. I don’t want it to end. This feeling is familiar.
What do you do with the memories that make up a relationship that’s no longer yours? I think about this a lot. In fact, I think about it all the time: as photo memories pop up as notifications (the haunting sentiment of ‘one year ago today’) and familiar walks through the city bring up specific moments that would be insignificant to anyone else but you. The coded language is lost. The taste is disappearing. The best can’t be saved, and you’re reminded that it didn’t last.
You don’t want to forget, because how could you forget something that was so big, important, beautiful, fulfilling and joyful? But you also can’t just replay memories around in your head, remembering every tiny detail, sitting in the sadness of its temporariness, its past, its ghost.
I think about it again at McDonald’s. Ordering a double sausage egg McMuffin meal, I wolf it down on the train, because hunger has bisected with a hangover and an early morning at Waterloo station. In many ways it was perfect and exactly what I needed. In another way, it didn’t match up to the memories I have of this specific taste from childhood, eating these soft, salty sandwiches in hotel rooms with my family before a holiday truly began. But when it was gone, less than five minutes later, I missed it. My mind kept trailing back to those first few bites, trying desperately not to just remember it but to live in the feeling of experiencing it, which is a hopeless, hapless and impossible task that we’re forever doomed to repeat.
This is probably why I play the saddest songs to feel it all again (see above). Why it feels good to cry (because it means it’s still real) and painful to remember (because it means it’s still over). Memories have a funny way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. We’re in a perpetual state of experiencing then remembering; these memories then inform our next experiences, and sometimes they’re happy and often they’re sad, but you take the bad with the good and eventually nostalgia makes it all feel hazy and dreamlike, so the hard, pointy edges don’t feel as sharp or painful. Time makes memories feel nostalgic, and right now not enough of it has passed for me not to feel like a bus route, a walk down by the river, a post-it note on the fridge is like a needle to the heart.
Sometimes you crave a meal or you think of a certain dish with voracious excitement or nostalgic longing; one that you haven’t thought about in weeks, months, years. You’ll remember some of the small details of it – like the curl of the curry leaf or how the butter was spiced and fragranced by mustard seeds. You’ll remember the bigger picture, too, like where you were when you ate it last time and how it made you feel. You’ll try to recreate it, but it won’t ever be the same, and you’ll accept that because memories fade and new experiences replace them, and we continue the cycle because that’s what humans do. We keep on going. We savour the last bites because it feels so good to hold it on our tongues; and then our tongues are coded. The specifics of each taste might change or become muted or disentangled, but the bigger picture remains.
Forgetting might make it all easier. Then everything can feel new and shiny again. Then all the pain can disappear and you won’t have nights where you walk down the canal and are so thankful it’s dark so you can cry in peace. But also then you’d forget all the good parts, and all the things that have made up the sum of you right now. And actually the taste stops being bitter and simply turns sweet and you can eat without trying to recreate the perfect bite and just let it be something new to sink your teeth into.
Why do we always leave the best until last? I bought some lamb mince the other day, ready to make meatballs that evening. But it was 11am and lunch was on my mind and I didn’t want to wait. So here’s a case for making a meal out of your lunchtimes, too. I went as far as to drink a glass of red wine whilst browning the lamb at midday on a Monday, but that’s just a personal take.
For the meatballs, mix 400g of lamb mince (could be pork or beef or a mixture) with a big pinch of chilli flakes, four garlic cloves minced or finely chopped, a couple of pinches crushed coriander and fennel seeds and some freshly chopped parsley. Salt and pepper to season. Then mix it all together with your hands, rolling just one into a ball. The trick to a perfectly seasoned meatball is to try one first and adjust accordingly. So in a hot, heavily oiled cast iron, add one meatball and cook until brown on all sides. Give it a taste and see what the mixture needs. Maybe a little more spice, more salt, more fragrance. Once you’re happy, roll them all into balls and cook as many as you’d like, making sure there’s always enough olive oil so they don’t stick to the pan.
I had mine with some Bold Bean butter beans which I heated up in some leftover Sad Pasta sauce, a simple cucumber and rocket salad dressed with lemon and olive that sat on top of the courgette, yoghurt and feta dip from the last SNOA newsletter. I ate it all from the serving dish, and mopped up all the juices with a pita. If you’re dining solo, you’ll have plenty of meatballs leftover. I cooked them in batches so they tasted fresher, keeping them in the fridge until the next meal (would suggest stuffing all of the above into a pita for lunch the next day).