Too Attached (To Food)
Here’s the thing about food. You can let it wash over you and not really over analyse why you’re eating it. Coffee will help you function in the morning. Greens will make you feel good. Pasta will fill a hole. Water will hydrate you.
You can decide not to attach a certain meaning or deep emotion with a dish.
You can decide not to think about the moment someone told you they loved you whilst dancing in the kitchen drunk on chardonnay and burning the sausages. You can ignore the fact that the smack of chilli-slicked noodles remind you of a bus journey home sat in silence sitting opposite someone who shouldn’t feel like a stranger. You can pretend that a roast potato doesn’t conjure up every memory of a parent scooping you up after you’ve fallen down. Or that the tremble of egg whites don’t immediately take you back to the friendship that never ended.
Sure, you could just not do that.
And your life would still be rich and spectacular and you’d probably be happy and sometimes sad, feeling regular and normal human emotions, just not at the mercy of a piece of stupid food.
Of course, I can’t.
I have built a life around food. And memories. And the people who come with those memories and have eaten or cooked that food. It’s probably why you’re reading this right now.
Lately I’ve become a little desensitised to food (I’m sorry, I promise sad girl spring will be over soon. Forgive the continuation of this moody theme). I eat rice and it doesn’t taste like home anymore. I roasted a chicken the other day and, although happy to serve it to the person who it was made for, I could have cared less whether I took a bit. I’ve eaten dumplings and noodles, which, however delicious – the filling of a xialongbao piping hot, the technique still eluding me, the pork so salty and rich, the chilli vinegar a sour tonic – I didn’t feel that heart-clenching excitement that I usually get when taking a bite.
I did, however, reprise Sad Pasta for a friend the other day with surprising results. I was less concerned with the recipe, and more with the content of the conversation and the surrounding mountains that we could peak at just as the sky turned pink. The taste of a sour beer in my mouth, a little buzzed, and the twists of Casarecce pasta bouncing in salted water, reminding me of my own ocean dip, a little colder at a cool 2º earlier that evening. The tomatoes an assorted colour of sunrise hues, oranges and reds and yellows, sat patiently in a pool of olive oil and jammy shallots and garlic and oregano, lid on so the steam collects at the top and they wilt a little. I cooked them slow – for about an hour, so the juices leaked out and the lemon rinds softened and then we threw in seven prawns, and I told my friend to eat them with the skins on.
I suppose I didn’t attach too much meaning to the dish, other than it was delicious, and I was happy to be there, and we ate it out of the pan at 9pm as the sun faded and the sadness washed over me, and there were tears and no cheese and plenty of olive oil and the bitter crunch of arugula and the promise of tomorrow, but with no expectations.
The nth version of Sad Pasta because it will never stop filling a hole with comfort.
For two people, you’ll need:
350-400g pasta
A punnet of cherry tomatoes
One shallot, sliced finely
A few pieces of lemon rind
Some fresh thyme or oregano
A pinch of red chilli flakes + salt + pepper
1 tbsp capers
2-3 sun dried tomatoes
A lot of olive oil
Optional: prawns (we used 7, not sure why that specific number but it was probably one too many)
Optional: grated pecorino
In a wide shallow pan on a low-medium heat, pour more olive oil than you would think you need (you can also use some of the oil from the sun dried tomatoes), and when it shimmers, at the shallots and the tomatoes. Add a twist of salt, a pinch of chilli flakes and a few of the fresh herbs, turn the heat down and pop the lid on. Leave for about an hour on a super low heat until the tomatoes become saucy and jammy. Stir occasionally if, like me, you can’t leave things alone. About half way through, add the capers and sun dried tomatoes. Put the pasta on the heat, bring the salted water to a rolling boil and cook the shapes to your desired bite. Add a little pasta water (not too much though) to loosen the sauce, throw in the prawns if using, then stir the pasta through until the sauce is a little less watery. Finish with pecorino if using, and enjoy with a banging sunset and a sour beer.
I forgot to do Leftovers earlier this week, so here’s a few to tide you over until Wednesday.
This piece by Sheila Heti for The Paris Review titled We Need The Eggs: On Annie Hall, Love and Delusion.
Some tips on making the perfect restaurant sandwich at home from Eater.
This amazing guide to what to eat and drink in London from A Novel Idea, illustrated by Millie Lagares.
A spring carbonara that I’ll definitely be attaching some meaning to when I get home (if I ever stop extending my flights back).
And finally, this beautiful hand-drawn reel that shows you how to make my Crispy Rice and Salmon, by my wonderful friend Anita.