Healing food for hard times
When the best way you know to show love is to cook, sometimes simple is best
Last night I went to my dear friend Rachel’s house for dinner. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai for the first time ever, which means we her friends were the very lucky beneficiaries of Rachel’s mother’s absolutely bananas Indian vegetarian home cooking. We feasted on light-as-air Gujarati-style papadams and fluffy steamed idli with a huge pot of sambar with plenty of curry leaves and eggplant and drumsticks (a.k.a. the new-to-me moringa plant, which I did not know you were supposed to scrape out of its fibrous casing with your teeth and not simply pop into your mouth whole lol). Grand discs of crisp, steaming dosa flew at us every 30 seconds from Rachel’s mother station at the stove, her hands deftly wielding the ladle that spread out the circles of batter on the griddle at precise intervals until paper-thin. While I have never made dosa, I immediately understand it is an art form you can devote a lifetime to perfecting, like pleating dumplings or knife-cutting noodles.
My contributions were a large batch of pre-mixed watermelon margaritas (this recipe flavored with some citrus simple syrup I had to make up for a less-than-perfect melon) and strawberry-blackberry shortcakes with vanilla bean whipped cream (this recipe but with 50/50 AP and cake flour for an even more tender shortcake). We drank tequila and whiskey on the roof until long past midnight on a school night.
These kinds of evenings and meals remind me that food heals. All throughout the evening, we kept repeating the sentiment: This is so healing. Rachel had organized this dinner in part as a way to make sure our friend Lucy had a low-key evening of support and good food as she is navigating the aftermath of a fire that severely damaged her small bookstore. (More details and a way to help here.)
It struck me that the healing we derived was in large part from the normalcy of it all. Despite the circumstances, this could have been any other night, and I think that was the point. I think sometimes we forget that the ways we normally live/cook/eat/play/commune, however low-key, can have profoundly grounding effects when our loved ones are in times of crisis. I know I’m certainly guilty of thinking that a food drop-off for a sick friend or a friend with a new baby has to be something *beyond*, something out of the ordinary, something extra special in order to commemorate the out-of-ordinary event the meal necessitated. But if that friend and I have previously deeply enjoyed conversation at my table on a random Tuesday over bowls of humble lentil soup with crackers, why wouldn’t I just make the soup instead of insisting on lasagna with homemade bechamel and bolognese that takes half a day to prepare? Why does one have to be better than the other? (Spoiler: It doesn’t.) Hunzi brought a bag of cut-up vegetables and a pint of herb-cashew dip for Lucy to take home, and I just thought it was such a thoughtful gesture that said, “These are for you in case normal things like snacking might be hard right now,“ because snacks are the little-known sixth love language.
I’ll leave you with an excerpt from a beautiful essay that I think about often, written by Lauren Frankfurt, about hunger and new motherhood and community. She writes the Night Light Substack and we have the same Pilates teacher; even though we’ve never met in person, I feel as if I know her. (Emphasis below mine.)
My perspective as a mother and a doula is that new mothers need meals made for them and dropped off at their door all the way through the first year, at least. I think to some people that will sound outrageous and radical, but in my lived experience and in my time witnessing other women’s lived experiences, I can assure you, it is not radical at all. The food is meant to sustain a mother and her family, to satisfy her hunger that is still so overwhelming, but also, to feed her spirit. Her spirit that is, honestly, feeling kind of defeated and lonely, a little worn out and run ragged, and desperately in need of the boost that comes from knowing someone thought about her enough to cook her a meal, even if it’s been a while since she gave birth. It is physical and spiritual nourishment. It is community, it is medicine, it is sacred. Such a simple thing, standing in the kitchen and cooking a meal for a new mom, but it is happening on holy ground. After all, God moves among the pots and pans.
Although Lauren is specifically writing about cooking for new mothers, I would say her words apply to anyone who might be going through any period of time when they’re in need of the boost that comes from knowing someone thought about you enough to cook you a meal. And in the end, isn’t that all of us, sometime or another?
I’d encourage you to read the full essay:
I would also love to know in the comments what you like to cook for friends/family/loved ones who are going through it. See you all on Thursday.
—Chaey
Love this. I've dropped off a lot of food in the last year for friends with new babies, friends with parents who are ill or recently passed away, and friends recovering from surgery. I love bringing warm, easy to digest foods that feel like an internal hug - soups, stews, oatmeal/congee/porridge with various toppings. For families with young kids, teriyaki chicken meatballs + lightly cooked broccoli/green beans + jasmine rice were a hit. As a nice summer meal, BA's crispy sesame tofu with veggies plus a pack of soba noodles for the recipient to boil. I'm also a mom who recently went through my second postpartum period--I was STOKED anytime a dropoff included snacks and sweets, and also wanted to say that meals don't need to be homemade to make the recipient feel loved and appreciated.
Thanks chaey