Something Whole

She looks like this: not a scrap of make up, slightly weathered skin, freckles on the bridge of her nose, hair scraped up, dirt under her fingernails.

I have a specific vision of her. She is me but with more grit. Less afraid. More whole. Or something like that. 

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A man who does not know me sent a message on Hinge that read: “Vibey profile! Very wholesome and oaty.” I get stuck on the word. All round and soft edges, it evokes a certain sexlessness. It’s a subtly feminised term – instinctively maternal. Matronly. A cynic might note that men are rarely called wholesome, even if they fill up the squishy corners of its definition. 

As I tend to my stock and salt a pot on the other hob, I contemplate this stranger’s assessment of my personality based on five images, three written prompts and a sneak peek at my Instagram profile. He might be onto something, I thought, stirring my beans and adding a splash of oil to the pot, watching the little glossy circles gather at the surface then separate. 

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I am in my ego, asking friends if they think I am wholesome. I’ll admit it is pure narcissism to ask people about how they perceive you. I am bothered by how much this innocuous term bothers me. Some say no, as if it’s reductive, as if it doesn’t encompass the other dimensions of my being. Others say, yeah, to be fair, you are quite wholesome. I agree with them both.

I read a New York Times article about how Gen Z now use the term ‘wholesome’ as a compliment. It becomes synonymous with cuteness, sincerity. I wonder if wholesomeness is the glow up of being ‘nice’, an adjective that always felt flat and pejorative. I think about how my friend’s sister uses the word ‘cosy’ to describe things that feel inherently good or heartwarming. To be cosy is, in many ways, my true goal in life. 

The Gen Z compliment is free of connotations of traditional family values and virtues. “They’re not necessarily defining ‘wholesome’ the way the Midwesterners traditionally do, but more in the sense of having a positive outlook on life.” Wholesomeness is not just a compliment, then. It’s a generational value.

So perhaps it’s my own generational mentality (or simply how I value myself) that assumes being wholesome is something to be embarrassed of. Also that my definition is decidedly different to how the generation below me see it and that’s precisely the point. They accept that being ‘wholesome’ is not an entire personality, but that you can also be someone who parties, someone who lives outside the edges of their comfort zones, someone who is extreme, someone who is not boxed in by perceptions. Me? I like to play into the smallness of the whole: I remain indoors, cooking food that keeps me warm, saying no to social outings, willing my world to remain small, perhaps so I can feel big (because that feels better than feeling small in a big world). 

Maybe I am wholesome. But I could also just be a little depressed. 

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The woman I described at the beginning of this essay (a loose definition at this point) is a person who I would describe as someone whole. I have met and seen many versions of her. She is who I’d like to be when I grow up. She’s someone who wouldn’t isolate one word and let its implications define how she feels about herself. She probably cooks all the things that I do but better, and she might have a family but maybe she lives in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, not lonely but alone, feeding the people around her with love. I hate the capitalist connotations of the word manifesting but I guess it’s what I am doing; not for money but for emotional wealth. For that wholeness.

I’m currently writing a book proposal about learning to be alone. How cooking and the two lonely kitchens I have occupied have moved me further towards a certain peace with solitude. I think inherently there is a wholesomeness to that. I’m learning to like this about myself. And to accept that I might not arrive at that place for a while. 

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I often like to quote Walt Whitman who wrote, rather emphatically, “I am large, I contain multitudes,” which I truly believe (proof: not just wholesome but also pretentious!!) in myself, but won’t believe that others will accept that. Like how a dish is not just the words written on the pages of books but something bigger when they’re in the hands of each new cook: they begin as one thing and become something else entirely by the end of the meal. 

A recipe for something whole: a cup of white rice, soaked then rinsed until the water runs clear. Placed in a rice cooker, a donabe pot, or simply a pan, with 1.1 cups of water, a pinch of salt, a splash of sesame oil and half a spring onion finely sliced on the diagonal. Cook on a medium heat (if using the hob) with the lid on until the rice is tender, and let it rest for ten minutes. Spoon into a small bowl. Add a little soy sauce and sesame oil and mix. Shower sesame seeds on top and the rest of the sliced spring onion. Now, a packet of crispy, salty seaweed. Place each sheet on top and hug it around the rice with chopsticks until the bowl is empty, but you are full.

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My friend Sophia tells me that this is not our season to date. This is our season to return inwards, to piece together our whole selves. The danger is not to retreat but to expand. To allow ourselves to rest, not wither. If the sincerity of this essay is anything to go by, I’m hopefully well on my way.