(not) cooking for friends (as much)
growing old with friends; Angela Carter’s potato soup; recipes for a potluck
To meet someone new tracks a random series of events – perhaps someone you know put you in touch, you attended the same evening class, a workplace connection. . .then, comes the time for fact-finding, which is set to be forced and to feel uncomfortable, or awkward at the least – where are you from? What do you do for a living? Summarise who you are in a nutshell, around a pint standing on the pavement outside of a pub, your bag squeezed between your legs and your shoulders folding over your chest to let commuters walk past you. We might be getting to know each other, tentatively and with broad questions, and see where that’ll lead us.
The friendship begins with a meal.
When I moved out from my mother’s flat, into a flatshare, the kitchen united and divided us as flatmates. Ever since, kitchens, whether I shared them with a friendly or strange group of people, have synthesised similar social expectations and responsibilities – do we each have our own shelf inside the fridge or is this a fit-for-all situation? Are we sharing the oils and salt as a household? Should I pretend I haven’t seen my flatmate’s dirty plate as I clean mine, or place it next to the sink for them to find later? I learnt concrete skills, such as how to slice an onion, as well as quirky tips; I grew accustomed to a specific vocabulary. My family didn’t sit down for meals, or cooked; the kitchen, which is often the only communal room in a house-share, became a formative place late in my life. As soon as I started sharing in a kitchen with strangers, not only did I cook, but I also had to carve a space for myself, as an individual within a group of people. By observing others first, therefore through an assimilation process; by being with friends and growing more confident in my skin, then.
I began cooking for friends. Prospective friends, especially, as I was living abroad and didn’t have my childhood friends close; these were people I had just met and wanted to be friends with. You know, the ones who got away, the relationships I had pressured with ideals, and those who nurtured into long-term friendships. As a committed introvert who interprets silence as a form of communication, I’m most comfortable being around folks if I can engage with something else at the same time. To be physically standing in front of the hob, swirling ingredients inside a saucepan and catching the occasional sight of the person who is sitting behind my back, at the dining table, soothes me. Ideally, I would have left snacks on the table for them – olives, crisps, or a splash of olive oil with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar (and a pinch of salt), a side of crusty bread – and I would be listening. There, as the frying oil keeps me attentive, like doodling in the corner of a notebook page had helped me in the classroom before, new friends talk and future friendships tuck in. It is like magic; sometimes, it works, and, even when it doesn’t, it still feels exciting and good. Energising, enticing – forward looking.
Over the past fourteen years, I’ve spent a lot of time in domestic and professional kitchens, working and living. My debut novel followed a friendship trio inside a shared kitchen, as it picked and as it was challenged by socio-political issues, such as Brexit, and the repercussions these have on a group of people who had never had to question their coming together before, other than to say, ‘I like spending time with you.’ I also wrote about drafting in kitchens and spoke about Pablo Picasso and Gertrude Stein’s relationship, as intellectual peers and friends. I’m guilty of romanticising kitchens routinely – quick risottos on a weekday and midnight pasta after a night out, coffee, cups after cups, then wine with friends the morning after a date. There is no going around it though, and this is why kitchens matter so much to writers: whether we can afford food and time to cook or not, whether there is shortage or abundance, whether we have appetite for plenty or we’re heartbroken, we cook or we don’t cook but side by side. Food always connects or disconnects us. And, whether we cook or we don’t, says more about how we live than any words, either through direct speech of elusive metaphors, could ever say.
I don’t cook for friends as much as I used to anymore. I realised this the other day, in a slapping gust, as I was running through one of the London neighbourhoods where I used to live. I passed underneath our old window, which was a door, effectively, going from floor to ceiling but without a balcony on the other side. We opened it wide as spring arrived, and we hosted dinners al fresco. It was a small flat, yet we had the most grandiose meals there, pushing the sofa against the wall and kneading bread on my desk as there was only one kitchen counter.
But friendships are hard. Harder as we grow old with friends.
Some years ago, a friend of Angela Carter said to her: ‘I’m seriously worried about the place of the intellectual after the Revolution.’ And Carter ‘misunderstood her completely’, as she responded: ‘As for me, I shall cook.’ The extract comes from Sylvia Plath’s Tomato Soup Cake: A Compendium of Classic Author’s Favourite Recipes and goes on, in Angela Carter’s words:
‘I assumed, you understand, that she was wondering what she, as an intellectual (which she was and is), would do with her time in a society where the profession of intellectual as such had been rendered redundant and we weren’t allowed to be parasites on the backs of those in productive labour any more. And I thought, a job in the communal kitchens. . .turning out bowls, plates and dishes of hearty fare – potato, beans with sausage, braised oxtail, cabbage, pancakes, chilli. . .all the things I knew best how to cook, due to a life spent on a relatively limited income in mostly northern climates (except for four months in Texas, where the chilli originated).’
Such an expansive answer could only be the descendent of a kitchen-based memory. It’s filled with subjectivity, a mixture of candid thoughts, like kitchen utensils influence on us, and of personality. Carter continues by saying that she had the communal kitchen in mind – ‘as serving establishments’ where one could get a meal for a couple of pennies – and that she still cooks, ‘basically, in the style of Utopian cafeteria’. She does, eventually, give away her recipe for an unmeasured potato soup, for which you need a small amount of chopped onion; a slightly larger amount of leeks; a much larger amount of potatoes; enough chicken or vegetable stock; milk.
If I don’t cook for friends as much anymore, there are external factors to consider. Our geographies render the logistics of an impromptu Tuesday dinner after a tough talk with a colleague impossible. We live in different cities and countries, and there isn’t much to say about this fact. More draining, emotionally, are the variables that have squeezed and lengthened and broken and/or mended friendships along the years, such as some of the choices we made, partners, politics, work and life balance, kids, how we choose to spend our money. The list never ends—our availability/capacity/willingness to be woken up by stomach burns on a Wednesday morning has shifted, unequally but irrevocably. The point is, as much as I’ve missed cooking for old-time friends over the past year, reciprocally, I’ve grown an unexpected (to me) worry at the thought of being with old friends in my kitchen. Well, in the kitchen as I inhabit it nowadays, in all its glories and dullness and contradictions. I keep asking myself: what do they eat these days? What will they think about how I cook?
As often with a piece of criticism, it is unfair and has more to say about me than about them. If cooking for friends has been the most enduring proof of being in love with someone in my life, no wonder it’s equally the most testing act I can perform for someone. It has become impossible to say ‘making a quick pasta for the guys’ without a second thought. We come scarred and healed from our times here and there, which manifest through our dietary requirements, taste, prejudices, texture we dislike, availability and capacity to spend time chit-chatting in the kitchen, among other things.
A few weeks ago, we hosted a housewarming party with my partner. L. and I moved to Glasgow about thirteen months ago. We didn’t know anyone at the time, so we had a real mixer of a night, from new neighbours we had only seen with their coats on, colleagues of L., our first friends in the city, people we met randomly, friends of friends; ages ranged from late twenties to sixty-something. We cooked a potluck.
J. left with two brownies and C. with some carrot cake. L. ate the last polentine for breakfast, I had the farro salad for lunch, and there were no leftovers. We have fixed a date for a meal with most of the people who came though, either at theirs or ours, something more focused this time – hearing, cadenced by courses.
‘Send me your dietary requirements.’
‘Also, let me know if there is something you despise.’
Two texts sent in quick succession, or an effective method to get to know someone. It’s also a genuine show of care, wanting to make someone happy with a dish, an open door to sharing more. And I ought to re-ask my old friends about their dietary requirements the next time they’ll come around.
Meals are time capsules that reveal where and who we are in the world, how we live in comparison to how we did during previous meals. It feeds us as much as it shows what we have been deprived of, or what we have consumed (recklessly, at times). It is exposing. And, the more you see and are seen by the people with whom you are sharing a meal, the more you are seeing and being seen – there, crackling gently as the pan chills on the hob, something ignites, a variation of what was assumed or known before. A prompt that we don’t need to live the same way, love the same things and people, to be together. That we is plural, a broken mirror, unlucky but attractive. I invite you to call your friend that is afraid of heights and tell them about your last hike up a mountain, to call a doctor friend and talk about craft and practice with them. It tastes sweet and sour like it had never done before, imperfect, lived on and enduring – real, like old friends.
Going back to Angela Carter and her intellectual friend, Carter does acknowledge that ‘it turned out neither of us need have seriously worried about our roles once the struggle was over, I still make my living by writing.’ Replace ‘writing’ by the word of your choice and cook Angela’s potato soup, or else, for a friend or two or none or more.
Margaux
PS. some recipes to share with old and new friends, or a happy potluck:
The bruschette were as expected: a slice of bread with olive oil, chopped tomatoes, basil and salt. Two types of crostini, assembled with baguette and beanie purées, one with chickpeas, tahini, parsley, capers and anchovies; the second one was cannellini beans, wholegrain mustard and parsley. Never underestimate a store-bought addition of carrot sticks and hummus, as well as two bowls of crisps (lightly salted on one side; salt and vinegar on the other).
Two salads: di farro, with artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, green olives, basil; pasta fredda, made with tricolore pasta, black olives, tuna, mozzarella and oregano. Plenty of olive oil, black pepper and salt in either case.
A trio of polentine, served cold, though on second thought they should have been warm. Cut a log of instant polenta into squares and grill them, then add the spread of your choice on top. We had black olive tapenade, roasted peppers and aubergines, and truffles.
A tart rarely disappoints. I shared a few along the years via this newsletter, including a courgette flowers tart, a wild garlic, chard and goat cheese tart, a red onion tarte Tatin, as well as a galette with beetroot, feta and dill. On this occasion, I made a mushroom and chestnut tart:
1 leek, sliced
1 handful of chestnut mushrooms, sliced
4 balls of frozen spinach, boiled and squeezed dry
150g oat cream
1 tsp of paprika
2 tsps of dried thyme
1 handful of chestnuts, grated
salt and olive oil to taste
In a casserole, gently fry the leeks and the mushrooms with some olive oil. In the meantime, preheat the oven to 180C fan. Combine the spinach with the leeks and the mushrooms, swirl but keep the heat low. Leave. In a separate bowl, mix the oat cream, paprika, thyme and salt. Grate the chestnut into the wet mixture, stir. Combine the batter and the vegetables and mix well. Line a tart tin with a pastry sheet. Prick some holes with a fork and stir in the mixture. Bake for 25-35 minutes, or until golden and cooked throughout.
The tahini brownies were K.’s making, so you’ll have to find the K. in your life to taste them. However, I shared the recipe for my carrot cake last week.
PPS. A few of these recipes are behind the paywall as I shared them via my Monday annotated recipes series. Drop me a line if you’d like to receive one of them as I’m always happy to share. I do comp subscriptions for free, if now isn’t the time to be paying for one but now is the time to be cooking with someone – just email me back, no questions asked.
Thank you for reading. I’m Margaux, a writer and cook, and this is my hybrid newsletter. You can find me on Instagram and read about my novels here. If you enjoy this newsletter, feel free to forward it to a friend. You can also support my work by subscribing to The Onion Papers (Thursdays are for long reads and Mondays for annotated recipes, both come out every other weeks) <3
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