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When it comes to food, I must admit that I probably think too much about it. I like eating a bit too much, but it brings me pleasure. My passion for food made me pick up an apron to start cooking, and well, now I love cooking. I love being in the kitchen, thinking about what I’m going to make, feeling the warmth of flavours and smells that overwhelm me. It feels like one of the most human experiences ever, combining tenderness and love and nourishment, as simple as that. Meals make or break us, they are central to our integrity, our balance and our happiness. We cook for ourselves sometimes with patience, sometimes absent-mindedly, sometimes only by necessity. Sitting down and thinking about what I want to make and share with friends and family is something that I look forward to, even if I sometimes am lazy, I confess.

For me, preparing food has become a source of creativity. A few months ago, I vowed to leave behind my gluttony for ready-made meals and instant noodles, and, even if I struggled for a while, I can now say that I can take care of myself (well, I actually know how to cook maybe three or four actual dishes now, which is better than nothing, right ?). Food is a synonym for curiosity and eagerness. What can I put together to make the best stew ? What spices can I get ahold of to bring colour into my life ? How do you bake cakes (no, seriously, how do you do it) ? Chopping onions still makes me cry, but for a moment, I forget my worries. I concentrate on NOT burning my dish, and fret on smaller things, like how much pepper I can put in a dish before it becomes inedible. And I’ve realised, over those past few months, that I do not cook for myself like I cook for others (unfortunately, I don’t put in as much effort for me). However, I do take pride in what I manage to literally muster out of the blue. Besides, isn’t cooking basically smashing things together and hoping for the best ? I have learned that it doesn’t have to be the most complicated, gastronomical thing. Homemade pickled red onions with cream cheese and salmon on a bagel take so little time and effort, but make for an excellent lunch (seriously though, try it if you have the time : finely chop an red onion and put it in a bowl, add a tbsp of sugar and two tbsp of vinegar, white or cider, and let it sit for at least ten minutes. Bon appétit !).

When the cooking is done and dusted, only one question remains : the matter of actually sitting down for a meal. We are creatures of habit and rituals ; it is only suiting to follow that tendency when it comes to these sort of  ceremonies. I’m not talking about those meals alone, sitting in front of a screen, but about the dinners we throw, the parties we have, the feasts we indulge in. Setting the table comes with its codes and linens and silverware (we use the fancy one only on Sundays). Put your napkin on your lap, keep your elbows where they belong and don’t talk with your mouth full. As unruly as I can be, I always struggle to throw away etiquette, as if it was engrained in me (maybe it is, or maybe I’m all too polite, only time will tell). As I settle down and pick up my knife and fork, though, I can always be sure that a scent, a taste, a colour, a rustle will catch my eye and smack me in the face with sweet, sweet nostalgia. I could quote Marcel Proust on that (whether it be the madeleine’s subtle taste or the pavements’ clear echoes), although I’m afraid I’ve never actually read those books ; I can never seem to concentrate on his long and winded sentences. I much prefer the gentle colours and delightful charm of the movie Ratatouille, which uses the same wistful devices. When Anton Ego (the critic guy at the end of the film) comes around for a meal, he gets slung into his past and into his mum’s skirt, just with a dash of courgettes and tomatoes (I’ll have what he’s having). This nostalgia, this feeling of belonging can only be achieved with fleeting aromas and loving flavours, that seem to create a long forgotten cocoon, suspended in time and ever so ephemeral.

Most of the time, having a meal implies sharing it. Eating alone is fine, but breaking bread with a loved one, a friend, a stranger is a lesson in togetherness and hospitality that I cherish. Splitting a meal implies showing generosity, and, most importantly, vulnerability. We set aside our differences, our survival instincts, and open ourselves to getting to know someone on a different level. We let down our defences and let ourselves be authentic for once,as we cannot hide behind masks (both literally and figuratively) anymore. We seek acknowledgment and put our prejudices, our differences aside for one moment where none of this matters. We eat as one, showing sensitivity and attentiveness. And it is this vulnerability, this acceptance that we find in this experience that sometimes make eating on your own so lonely and heart-wrenching. However, this balance is fragile, and there is so much violence in the act of refusing someone at your table. “You can’t sit with us” means you are not worthy of any attention, and are effectively ostracised from social rituals. It shows hostility and intolerance. What does it say about you if you can’t share a meal with someone because they’re different than you ? Bigotry is cristallised in this repulsive behaviour, and shows a shameful side of humanity. Having a seat ready for everyone and anyone at your table is only fair. Food is first and foremost a multicultural experience. We share recipes, tips and tricks all around the world, and make our cuisine even better by mixing it up ; it should come with respect and understanding, not with abuse.

Eating and cooking together are some of the most intense things, but it is their triviality and simplicity that transforms them into something truly intimate. At the bat of an eye, I could abandon everything just to have coffee with a friend, as if it was the most natural thing ever. Or, even better, take the fact that an orange, or a tangerine (or is it called a satsuma ?) are designed to be shared. Peeling an orange fills the air with citrus-y scents, and makes everyone turn around. Like a light mist, it flutters into every nostril, every mind, it crawls under skulls and makes itself at home. And you can’t just bite into that kind of fruit like that, no. You have to dig your fingers into the soft, leathery skin and delicately peel it off. Now you get to separate each quarter, dividing the pieces, carefully removing the white stringy bits surrounding the tart flesh. And only then can you share it with others, who await it eagerly, even if they don’t really like oranges. Biting down on the acidic and tangy bubbles of juice and pulp is the final reward, acting as a farewell and drawing a smile on everyone’s faces. Oranges are designed to be shared, even if they are ordinary. We love through food, and share the tiniest bits of who we are through it, things that we would never be able to tell anyone in any other way. There is a short poem, written by Wendy Cope, that says all of that, maybe better than me. I will disclose it right now, and leave on this note : really do try pickling onions.

The Orange, Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange —
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave —
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.