I have a child, age 1½. It’s like she sprang out of me straight into toddlerhood. The timeline in my memory goes like this: For a long time, I was hoping for a successful pregnancy, then I was pregnant for 86 years, and now, three seconds later, I have a child. Not a baby, mind you, but a child, with mysterious errands and unpredictable moods.
See, I don’t really remember the baby part. Of course, there are pictures. The pictures say I nursed in this chair, or on that couch, or in bed, or on the floor. Some pictures say that I wore real pants and brushed my hair, but those images are suspect. In one picture, my spouse is on the floor next to the baby. The baby is staring at the ceiling and my spouse has a hand over his eyes, like he’s either trying to sleep or remember what that thing, sleep, used to feel like. That image is believable, but it still seems only half-real.
I was warned that I would forget so much in the wake of a new baby. The warning has turned out to be true. Babies aside, I suspect that any demanding, busy time—particularly if we’re less than well rested—scrambles our memories somehow, leaving us realizing how much of the texture, color, and clarity of those days has turned to a blur. Where did it all go? we wonder. What do we get to keep from that time?
Food made with care and eaten gratefully is hard to forget
Here is what I do remember from the weeks and months after the baby was born: I remember the food people made for us. I remember hearty meatballs rolling in a bright sauce. I remember a box of plums, kiwis, berries, and peaches. I remember delicate spring rolls. I remember a kale and white bean soup that felt like it soaked right into my bones. I remember salad with strawberry, feta, and basil so lively and sweet I wanted to cry. I remember a chicken so tender I gasped. I remember comforting dal with cilantro and lime. I remember the bright vegetable colors that studded a bowl of grain salad. I remember a rich, gooey pie left on our porch, just in time for the holidays. I would run out of space on this page before I could name every main, side, and dessert we were given. The point is that these dishes are more vivid in my memory than most other experiences during that time.
Food made with care and eaten gratefully is hard to forget. That chocolate-zucchini cake lives on in my memory. So does the cooler of make-your-own taco ingredients. Somehow, the sensory details of these dishes provide a firm hook on which I can start to hang less-clear memories: The baby really was that small. We really knew so little. We really did live in a state of suspended awe. We really were taken care of in ways we didn’t deserve.
Of course, we need food to nourish our bodies. But I’d argue we also need it to capture what will disappear in short order. We need it to tell us where we’ve been and to whom we’re connected. We need it to punctuate all of these passing days.
