We All Have Our Favorites
One of the most enjoyable meals I can remember eating took place the spring of 2015 at The Fat Radish, a small restaurant in New York City, with my husband, Dan.
In January 2014, my family of six (including a 2 week-old baby Ezra) packed up and moved from warm, sunny Phoenix, Arizona to a frigid, grey-skied Columbus, Ohio. It all happened so quickly. On a Saturday, we were barefooted in the backyard. The next day, we were doubling up on socks and making our first introductions to snow pants and turtlenecks.
That year, I stayed home with my children as my husband worked outside the home. We had very little disposable income for restaurant meals and, quite honestly, due to my postpartum depression and frequent overwhelm, I never felt much like leaving my house.
My children and I spent a lot of time at the local branch of our public library. I took to checking out cookbooks. Even though we ate pretty much the same thing every week (banana bread, spaghetti, scrambled eggs, repeat), I found enjoyment flipping through the colorful recipes geared towards adult palates.
One cookbook, in particular, became a favorite of mine: The Fat Radish Kitchen Diaries. My heart swells and a lump forms in my throat as I type the name. That's how much I loved this book. My husband gifted it to me for Christmas that year.
As I gradually settled into my new life, I worked my way through almost all the recipes in this cookbook, making notes in the margins, reading and re-reading the stories behind the recipes. It became a life-line of sorts. Creating the simple but tasty meals sparked some life and joy into the heaviness of that time.
The following spring, Dan and I flew to Boston for him to run the marathon. Afterwards, we rented a car and drove to New York City as a way of celebrating our wedding anniversary and the end of my own marathon of sorts.
Dan had made dinner reservations at The Fat Radish (the very restaurant that birthed my favorite cookbook). We got dressed up. We took a taxi to a tucked-away neighborhood. We stepped up to the hostess and gave her our names. She smiled broadly and walked us to our table.
The dining room, with its bare brick walls, was beautiful and airy. The low din of conversation colluded with soft music to create the perfect level of background noise that makes a couple feel alone while surrounded by a crowd. We got to taste menu items I had tried my hand at making from the cookbook including roasted chicken, Scotch eggs (soft boiled eggs wrapped in a light crusts of sausage), and house made donuts (soft, warm, covered in powdered sugar). The scent in the air was comforting, good food mixed with the hazy smell from the votive candles on each table.
To my surprise, Dan had been in conversation with the manager prior to our visit. After the meal, she walked us back into the kitchen to meet the kitchen crew and chef. I didn't even try to hold back my tears as I met the people who had penned the recipes and stories that had carried me through a dark and difficult time.
I got the feeling of coming home to myself during that dining experience. The meal was prepared and served by expert hands, releasing me from the responsibility of shopping, cooking and cleaning up after myself and a family. For the first time in months, the evening belonged to me. I belonged to me.
I know this was one of my most enjoyable meals; not because someone else told me it was or I had met a prescribed nutrient allotment. No, the enjoyment came because many elements came together in just a way to create a sense of both anchoring and freedom. I felt love, nurture, connection, and satisfaction.
And they all lived happily ever after.
JK.
I lived the rest of that day contented and fulfilled.
Would you like to tell me about your favorite meal? Reach out and fill me in. By the way, in doing so, you will be practicing at reclaiming your inner authority with food. It’s reflecting on your own lived experience. No one but YOU has the authority to tell YOU what brings YOU joy and pleasure. Remember that.