Bahhhh. I was going to review Figure 8 tonight, which is a local microbrewery in my hometown, because my folks wanted to take me there for my birthday dinner. But they’re closed on Tuesdays! Bahhhhh!!! Ah well.
Yesterday, I did get lunch at Dish with my darling friend Milana, a gorgeous sweet friend of mine from way back in the day. She was one of the folks I interviewed for my cookbook too, and I briefly looked through it again as she discussed Serbian foods with my mom. See, I’ve been saying for months now I want to finally get the book published, but it needs a bit more work.
Hadn’t looked at it since my senior review, though.
And? It was… disappointing. To me, anyway. My writing was horrible and forced. It didn’t flow. There wasn’t any heart that I could tell.
My passion and fire had become an assignment, and only an assignment, and it breaks my heart to admit that to myself. I let academia get in the way of my dreams.
See, it’s not so much about making money, or being able to accurately report, or organization, or selling points. It’s about home. It took me a while to realize it, but it’s about home.
There were a lot of mixed emotions for me growing up because there were a lot of crazy things happening around me while I was growing up, whether it happened at home, with family, at school, during extracurriculars, or even just in my own mind while trying to play and be a kid. And I think a lot of us are the same way, lots of mixed feelings and memories, with everything blurring together more than we’d like.
But food? Food is always a vivid memory, and an identifier. Food represents certain points in time, certain aspects of maturity; food truly does define who we are, in every possible argument you can bring to the table.
Visiting my grandpa may not have been the most exciting thing in the world, but I do remember it vividly because of the food- the fruits he would cut up, knowing we were visiting. The store-brand Oreos and Bugles we would snack on. His homemade soups which, at the time, I wasn’t interested in because I was a dumb kid. Arbys. White Castle. Dos Equis in the fridge for when his brother would visit. Vinegar. Garlic. Chicken stock. I can’t tell you what I remember doing half the time I would visit with him, but I can tell you the smells of the house and the kitchen, and the colors, and the china he served food on, and the sound the glasses would make as they clinked against my teeth while I’d gulp down water.
I have so much more I want and need to write regarding this, but I’m so tired and I do have work in the morning. But guys. It’s home. My cookbook is helping me find home again. I’m going to find my home and make my own home again.