"Waiting" snacks on a cold and lovely Thanksgiving day.
Two-and-a-half months. Yep. That's how long it's been. And before that, I can't quite call one or two posts a month for most of late summer and fall a prolific run. So here is my new year's resolution (set in ink, so to speak): write, write, write. Let's see how well I follow through.
The picture to the left is from Thanksgiving — an absolutely blissful day with friends, and while that seems like ages ago, the event has happened in the time since I last visited this blog. The themes that figure front and center tonight, as I write, are those of family, friends, place, space, laughter, and, of course, the sharing of food. After all, that's what the holidays are for, right? We had the grand privilege of having family in town from India for weeks surrounding Christmas and New Year's, and as I watched my children playing with and performing for their aunties and uncles and the bottles of wine being shared one after another during long nights of cooking and conversation, I couldn't help but long for some grander communal experiment.
Some people think I'm a bit odd, perhaps since we don't live in the biggest of apartments, but I absolutely relish having people come to stay with us for long periods of time. This has been especially true since having children. I often think back on the years I grew up with lots of college students coming through our home (my father is a theology professor). We had wonderful babysitters and dinner and holiday guests, and at more than one occasion we mourned someone's graduation, which meant he or she was leaving us for good. On the up side, some of those students became friends I still keep in contact with to this day. And some of those friends left me with memories and moments that most certainly impacted the woman I am today. The first journal I received on my birthday at age 11. The canvas black Chinatown slippers I got from a dear friend's holiday trip to New York City and the stories of that vacation that ensued later that night. That is what I most long for for my children. The embrace of people and the plethora of ideas that will shape the men they will become.
Nalin has a wonderful book by Guy Mirabella, Eat Ate, which he got from my sister-in-law one Christmas. It is part cookbook, part journal, part photo album. About half-way through the book, he has a little insert with a written memory of his childhood. On the front of it, he writes, "Life carries on. In the rush to embrace change, we need to take what is good from the past, to remember those things that remain relevant and essential for us today. Like breakfast." A lovely and simple sentiment, and one that reminds me of another beautiful time. We have some close friends in Sweden who we see so rarely yet think of so often. The one time we traveled to Sweden together was to attend the wedding of our dear friends Johanna and Henrik. Right after landing, we drove with Johanna's brother Gustaf directly from Stockholm to the southern part of Sweden, kept awake only by bubbly water and sour Swedish candies. We arrived at a clustering of farm houses on an idyllic lake, and proceeded to experience one of the most beautiful weekends of our married lives. And out of all of that loveliness, you know what I recall most often? Breakfast. In the mornings before and after the wedding, everyone would gather and work to create something quite ordinary and yet extraordinary. A bit of plain yogurt and granola; plates of cheese, ham, cucumbers, and tomatoes; thickly sliced bread, jams, and butter; dark, bold coffee with cream; fish paste and mustard; soft-boiled eggs in cozy little cups. And nearly a dozen or so of us would come together and eat from this table. And at those very moments, I never wanted to leave that place. I did, of course, but perhaps I took a bit of it along with me. And perhaps it is still with me today.