disaster preparedness
The other day, a faraway friend and I connected electronically and commiserated on our respective states of mind. She mentioned that if we were in the same city, we would be sharing such thoughts over a big bottle of wine. I agreed. Perhaps there might even be a few strands of pasta resting easily in a simple tomato sauce stewed slowly for hours and a small loaf of tender bread with a classically crisp and crunchy French crust.
So often the depiction of a depressed person (something I would never admit to either of us as being) includes a waxy cardboard carton of ice cream; opened, melting and sticky. Marshmallows becoming spongy white pools in a sea of separating cream and sugar. The rancid nuts sinking to the bottom. It may comfort some people, but to me it just looks like something to be wiped with a wet dish towel.
Comfort usually means warmth, metaphorically and physically. A thick fleece jacket, a humming fire not sparked of a person's belongings, a sympathetic smile, tomato bisque soup. I would take the frying pan to slices of extra-sour sourdough, buttered, grilled with shredded sharp cheddar in between. For dessert, a modest cup of thick hot chocolate made with cream and actual chocolate instead of Hershey's brown drippy crap in a plastic bottle. I'd drink it with a spoon.
If this grilled cheese sandwich could speak, I imagine it would have a voice like an old lady who has spent the greater part of her life yelling. A former cheerleader or construction site foreman, Sandwich would fling her wisdom forth with disregard for oil splatters or hurt feelings. Sandwich would laugh at my confession to an awkward nude encounter with a boy and say things like "Quit your bellyaching." The hot chocolate would smile and continue flipping through Harper's Bazaar. I would give Hot Chocolate the low, calm voice of my faraway friend.
The strength of a relationship is never in its ease with physical proximity. I do not deny a necessity many people feel for physical contact but, the comfort that can straddle cities or spans of time is the kind that allows us to discover and cultivate the ability to soothe ourselves. We create friends out of foods. We develop the strength to pour one glass of red instead of two. Something to tide us over until the next visit, whenever that may be.
So often the depiction of a depressed person (something I would never admit to either of us as being) includes a waxy cardboard carton of ice cream; opened, melting and sticky. Marshmallows becoming spongy white pools in a sea of separating cream and sugar. The rancid nuts sinking to the bottom. It may comfort some people, but to me it just looks like something to be wiped with a wet dish towel.
Comfort usually means warmth, metaphorically and physically. A thick fleece jacket, a humming fire not sparked of a person's belongings, a sympathetic smile, tomato bisque soup. I would take the frying pan to slices of extra-sour sourdough, buttered, grilled with shredded sharp cheddar in between. For dessert, a modest cup of thick hot chocolate made with cream and actual chocolate instead of Hershey's brown drippy crap in a plastic bottle. I'd drink it with a spoon.
If this grilled cheese sandwich could speak, I imagine it would have a voice like an old lady who has spent the greater part of her life yelling. A former cheerleader or construction site foreman, Sandwich would fling her wisdom forth with disregard for oil splatters or hurt feelings. Sandwich would laugh at my confession to an awkward nude encounter with a boy and say things like "Quit your bellyaching." The hot chocolate would smile and continue flipping through Harper's Bazaar. I would give Hot Chocolate the low, calm voice of my faraway friend.
The strength of a relationship is never in its ease with physical proximity. I do not deny a necessity many people feel for physical contact but, the comfort that can straddle cities or spans of time is the kind that allows us to discover and cultivate the ability to soothe ourselves. We create friends out of foods. We develop the strength to pour one glass of red instead of two. Something to tide us over until the next visit, whenever that may be.
posted by Katie at 5:01 PM
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