Food For Thought.
I dream in dinner party conversation. It's where I imagine my most poignant thoughts are aired, where politics and gossip is as interchangeable as the dishes that move between hands. Where strangers meet, friends gather and family is made. It's where we tell stories, catch feelings, explode in madness, quote articles, confuse films, ask questions, and after a few bottles of wine, show our vulnerabilities the most.
I've always been obsessed with the notion of feeding groups of people around a dinner table. Lately, this isn't a luxury I've been able to indulge in. But not just because we're living in a social distanced parallel universe. I have orbits of great, wonderful, deep friendships. Some local, but many of them not. I've shared meals in countless countries, leaving a trail of friendships behind. Masala dosas in Varkala. Caesar salads in California. Pastries and coffee in Vancouver. Filipino fare in Toronto. Rice and beans in Central America. Roti in Sri Lanka. Fresh fish in Biarritz. My dinner table is global but I can't fit everyone around it, as much as I'd love to.
Food and friendship have always enmeshed in one another. So when Monday came around and I was walking through my neighbourhood, alone, to the local Sainsbury's to pick up a meal for one, feelings of loneliness rushed in. Where are all my friends – do I even have any? Why am I not cheersing with pints on the roof of my favourite pub, quivering with delight at five other faces who I love? I've always been the kind of person who is able to make friends – but usually singular friends. One-on-one dinners and intimate conversations within hours of meeting each other. Groups are not my forte. I turn into a snail when surrounded by people I don't know (slow and shelled, leaving a trail of tears behind me).
I wish I was part of more friendship groups. That I didn't feel anxious whenever I'm introduced to more than four people who I don't know. That I could cook for ten people and know them all equally. The last year has been bittersweet. I've gotten to know (and accept) myself better than ever. But all that alone time has made me ache for those swathes of people who can wrap you up in conversations and young, dumb drunkenness (see above). Before 2020 I would shy away from nights out with people I don't know; now all I want is an evening of dancing to disco with strangers at Ridley Road Market Bar.
But, I also know that how lucky I am to have the friends that I do. That I have groups –and they're like the dishes on the dinner table. They don't have to be the dinner table. I can't wait to cook for them again soon. And to meet new people, form new orbits and share food and stories with them, too.
There's one person who I'd do anything to share a meal with (no, it's not Issa Rae, but she'd definitely be a welcome guest at our table). Someone who has become family to me; who is my martini partner – even with eight hours time difference; whose birthday it is today and who I've never ever felt lonely around. Kyla, happy 29th you weirdo. London isn't the same without you and maybe that's why I felt so sad on Monday. Because I knew if you were here, we'd be drinking too much rosé on a rooftop somewhere, cheersing to our friendship and probably talking inappropriately about something in public. I love you.
Here's to the friendships that make us, and the ones we're yet to make.
Cat x
Recipes-not-recipes™️
A short but sweet one that reminds me of evenings in with Kyla, choosing organic primitivo as our main course and this salad as our appetiser. Kyla makes me a healthier human being (conversely, I made her eat a lot more butter than she’d ever thought possible in the 9 months she lived here), so hearty salads were our go-to (when we weren’t at Jolene).
I scrolled through approx 9k photos and still can’t find this exact one, but effectively it consists of a dish of thick greek yoghurt spiked with lemon zest that coats the bottom, topped with halved baby potatoes roasted in olive oil and paprika. Add shavings of parm and dill on top.
In a cast iron, halved Brussels sprouts are coated in olive oil and fresh turmeric, then seared (add a little butter to soften). Leave in cast iron and drizzle with a chilli oil like Tonkotsu’s eat-the-bits sauce – you want something to cling onto the char.
Then tear kale leaves off the stalk and massaged with a mixture of tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, water, wholegrain mustard and salt + pepper. Add pomegranate seeds, sliced avo (hold the A&E visit) feta and chickpeas. Black sesame seeds for a final flourish. Herbs optional, but greatly encouraged (parsley or mint or both work here!).
Other things to add to the salad could be…
– A few jammy boiled eggs, halved and topped with sumac
– Firm tofu marinated and cooked in teriyaki sauce
– Sub chickpeas for homemade beans
– Add tangy preserved lemons
– Grains like farro or spelt or pearl barley
– Thinly sliced fennel
Basically, it’s a kind a salad-not-salad kinda meal. One where you feel like you’re being virtuous but realistically there’s butter, two kinds of cheese, carbs and a creamy dressing. Best served with your best friend sat on the kitchen counter. Plates optional – but would recommend just eating straight out of the serving dishes. Wine to follow.
Since I Asked.
Today is my best friend's birthday. It's the second year in a row we've been on opposite sides of the world (thanks, COVID). If Kyla were here, we'd probably as hungover as I was yesterday, soothing ourselves with coffee, juice, breakfast hash and multiple episodes of Insecure. We'd drink martinis with salads (we never learn), lunch at Jolene and spend the afternoon at the park and come home to Pinot in bed with popcorn and The Parent Trap. In honour of her 29th birthday, I thought I'd ask her a few questions about food and our friendship. In her words: emotional is an understatement.
What's the meal that most reminds you of our friendship?
There are too many too choose, I was afraid of butter before met you, who would’ve known it would be my medicine. I look at the food you fed me in chapters , it started off with summer salads in the park, an intro to feta and “courgette” (so much fancier sounding than a zucchini ) deconstructed salads made of kale, pomegranate and squash. Burgers in bed and the last chapter made up mostly of pizzas & tiramisu . Emotional is an understatement.It’s never been about the meal for me, it’s been about eating it on the floor with a bottle of organic primitvo, on your small round jute rug, whatever meal we had always slightly salted with my tears ...I never told you this, but I cried when you got a kitchen a table because I wasn’t ready to move (literally up) from our floor dinners.
Describe the most comforting meal you remember growing up.
My Baba’s homemade Russian cooking, doughy buttery pyrahi and on weekends homemade waffles with sour cream and homemade raspberry jam.
Money is no object (we wish): tell me your ultimate three course meal and where are we going?
If money was no object, I’d fly to the coastline of Italy. I’d devour some focaccia, a Caprese salad, pasta, pizza and again... tiramisu. I’d bring my mum because she’s never travelled outside of Canada and I’d bring yours, Kie-Jo, so we could finalise our sisterhood over fresh tomatoes and limoncello.
If you could have one more meal again, what would it be and why?
When I was in Greece we did a sunset cruise, we swam in natural hot springs and then swam back on board to a homemade feast and devoured all the fresh ingredients with live music and way too much wine as the sun set over Santorini.
Leftovers.
– Super into the sound of Ottolenghi’s miso, tomato and oregano pasta
– Never heard of French Tacos? The New Yorker investigates its unlikely rise
– Obviously will be making Alison Roman’s spring chicken ASAP
– BRB just running to Esters for a beef shin pitta
– Esther choi makes kimchi fried farro look easy as
– Speaking of farro, Molly Baz’s grain salad is a herby feta vibe
– Ethaney Lee (aka @tenderherbs) makes every meal look the cutest ever