Is A Problem Shared A Problem Overshared?
Ramblings from a woman on day 948509 of self-isolation
Food For Thought.
Much like the line between too much and too little salt, the separation of public and private is blurred territory. The concept of 'sharing' has become hacked by algorithms and likes. We expect access to everything – information, personalities, memories, the future. Head to IG stories and we see bitesize narratives that when weaved together show a disconnected, two-dimensional picture of someone's day (guilty). We have become the paparazzi and the papped.
Over the past eight days, I've been self-isolating in my flat and in doing so, have felt less inclined than ever to share my life on social media. Eight days (or is it years? I can't tell anymore) of watching TV and asking friends to drop round groceries and listening to the rain and not going out for dinner and not feeling bothered about cooking makes you think about what the value is of displaying your interior world.
Imagine having a dinner party every night of the week. Thinking about the menu, prepping ingredients, feeling the need to cook something different everyday; then there's the constant conversation, topping up stories like wine glasses, putting on a smile all night. Exhausting. This is sometimes how I feel about oversharing. I've never been one to keep secrets (too much guilt; see a previous newsletter) and I find it impossible to answer even the most mundane of questions (like 'how are you doing') with monosyllabic answers like 'good', 'fine' or 'ok'. My responses are always filled with detail and nuance because without them I feel like I'm holding back or betraying my true feelings or making the person asking those questions feel like they don't deserve full, well-crafted answers.
Perhaps it comes from being naturally inquisitive (thanks, mum) but also from this socially-constructed obsession with discovering what makes up the sum of someone. There are people whose stories I'm more likely to seek out because I am hungry to know what they comprise of. It's an unhealthy obsession that feeds the Comparison Complex I think many of us experience. We tap and scroll in hope that seeing someone's kitchen or wardrobe or road trip or relationship will inspire us to be 'better' versions of ourselves. We feed off other people's feeds when really we should be filling up our own bowls.
I think there is something in not keeping things to yourself, but for yourself. Not everyone needs to know what you ate that day (I'm obviously guilty of this and aware of the irony of writing this in a newsletter that is basically about sharing what I eat everyday with 1500 wonderful strangers). You don't need to create a meal so it can shared – halved, then halved again; passed around the dinner table until it reaches you and you realise that there's nothing left. It's easy to fill others up and end up as the empty dish yourself.
The beauty of sharing is with it comes community and conversation and sometimes relief; but sharing also brings with it its own share of problems. Over-analysing, questions of ‘who will care?’ and inviting in constant comments and opinions.
Of course this isn't me swearing off sharing photos of my meals forever; more just a reminder to myself that it's not something that's expected of me. And not something I should expect of others.
Two more days left and I'm out of here. Towpath Café will be back open soon and a spot on the canal with fried eggs and tomatoes on toast is calling my name. TBC on whether I'll share the moment.
Here's to sharing and also keeping things for ourselves,
Cat x
Recipes-not-recipes™️
A severe case of I Can't Be Bothered To Make Anything on the 84583th day of self-isolation meant that simplicity was in order and so this classic recipe-not-recipe is another example of assembling really good ingredients in a palatable way and drizzling extra virgin olive oil with wild abandon.
I roasted a hefty hand full of cherry toms on the vine in lots of good olive oil with two crushed garlic cloves and a pinch of chilli flakes for about 20 minutes at 200ºC. I then made a version of Molly Baz's garlicky pistachio dressing by grating 2 cloves of garlic into a bowl, adding the juice of half a lemon, a few glugs of extra v, crushed pistachios, a big pinch of flaky salt, and a splash of white wine vinegar then massaged it into some crunchy lettuce leaves. I emptied half a jar of white beans (from Bold Bean Co. ofc, not a stan newsletter but not-not one either) into a sieve and gave them a rinse. Using the beans as a base in a shallow, wide bowl, I added the tomatoes, some torn mozarella, grated some lemon zest, and finished it with a few sprigs of fresh oregano and lots of chopped chives and a final drizzle of extra v. Salad served on the side. Glass of rosé, perhaps. Why not, it's Sunday (or is it? I've lost count).
Leftovers.
I wrote about Comfort Food for a new column (!) for ridiculously comfy bedding brand Bedfolk. Obviously roast chicken featured.
Jia Tolentino returns to the New Yorker with this piece (co-written with Ronan Farrow) on Britney’s conservatorship nightmare.
What is summer without a panzanella?
“Recipes Under Confinement” is a title that really resonates after the past week.
This kitchen stovetop still life is what you’d find if my heart was a photo album.
Spaghetti but make it anchovy miso butter laced.
Can I go on a road trip with Stanley Tucci, please?
Not usually one to reference Jamie Oliver, but for these baked apricots on toast, I’ll do it.
Reading SNOA has become one of my favourite parts of Sunday! Thanks for articulating things so many of us feel so beautifully.