The Calling of a Campfire
A good meal vs good food
I am constantly amazed by the depth and complexity of food. It’s the perfect combination of art and science, it has shaped our maps, it’s used as medicine and a weapon, it gets us through heartbreak and celebrations. The list goes on.
What I also find intriguing is how incredibly context-dependent food is.
Can good food be less enjoyable under the wrong circumstances?
Can mediocre food be made delightful under the right circumstances?
I consider a good meal to be about more than what’s just on the plate, it’s the experience as a whole. I will always appreciate a perfect bite, but sometimes that’s not all I am seeking.
Thursday, May 7th - 6:42pm
“Did she send us the right address? This is taking us to a tree,” I ask aloud as Erin and I search for Laura’s new house, a large bag of takeout containers in tow.
She did not send the correct address, of course. (A very Laura thing to do) ((said with love))
In her defense, she’s been under a lot of stress the past few weeks (hence the girls’ night and dinner delivery).
A few minutes and a corrected number later, we’re finally pulling into the driveway. Laura is waiting for us on the front steps.
We stash the food and our rumbling tummies on the far side of the counter (away from the dogs) and tour the new house. As someone who lives in an apartment, I “ooh” and “ahhh” over the size of the master closet and the skylight in the bathroom.
We take our time, conversing as we wander through each room.
As we return to the kitchen, we decide to move the food outside and eat on the back deck. It’s approximately 3 degrees cooler than comfortable to eat outside, but we don’t care. I love that I can see trees and grass and that I can’t hear my upstairs neighbor screaming into his gaming system.
We eat directly from the plastic containers and continue talking through the lows and highs of the week. Erin and I both look longingly at Laura’s salmon BLT, regret written across our mouths as we stab at our respective salads. (I love a good salad, but sometimes it’s just the wrong choice.) I switch to eating my side of sweet potato fries, which at this point I would call sweep potato mush. I know that fries don’t travel well, but sometimes cravings defy rational thinking. In this moment, I’m unbothered by the deflated, floppy potatoes. I am simply grateful to be here with my beautiful friends and the promise of summer on the horizon.
As our forks start to scrap the bottom of the containers (mmm, microplastics!), Laura calls for her fiancé to start a fire in the pit. The meal is far from over.
We gather up marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers and blankets (plus a bottle of red). Laura can’t find her pink shoes, so she (5’3) slips on her fiancé’s (6’1) sandals. Like everything else in her life, she makes it work and struts across the yard.
The dogs try to join us around the fire, but we have to banish them to the house because they won’t stop eating the grass (plus open chocolate wrappers are risky business).
I wrap a blanket around my torso and sit back in the Adirondack; my shoulders slowly start to drop away from my ears. The flames have grown more comfortable with the wood and the conversation shifts to plans for the future. I’m always amazed by how good conversation meanders from one topic to the next, with leaving us with no recollection as to how a new topic started. It’s just a flow of energy with no expectations.
Erin adds another log to the fire.
I rotate my marshmallow carefully near the base of a log, away from direct flame. I want an even, golden brown crust.
Erin sets hers ablaze, then begins her passionate rant about the books she’s reading. They are all about billionaires (with a B!, she emphasizes) with ludicrous plot lines.
She has hated every single one (yet has read nine (9!) of these books).
We laugh through the smoke and reach for more marshmallows, making a huge mess in the process (s’mores are truly, highly impractical).
Laura sets up a chair in honor of our friend who moved to a new state and sends her a video to let her know we saved her a seat (we miss you, Liz!).
We stay, allowing the fire to become the only light before we finally say our goodbyes (and Google how to safely put out the fire).
Saturday, May 9th - 6:02pm
My senses are consumed, yet again, by smoke. Except this time, I sit alone at a restaurant bar. I ordered the smoked rosemary gimlet and was unprepared for the literal definition of smoked rosemary.
I had a full day, but an open evening, so I am treating myself to dinner. Nothing too fancy, but something nicer than what I wanted to make for myself. Plus, I wanted out of my apartment.
My drink arrives in a rocks glass, the rosemary sticking out of a mountain of shaved ice, perhaps as a warning to the danger below. I swirl my straw around the shrub and take a sip - it’s nuanced, tangy and herbal with a toasty finish. (If I’m being honest, the amount ice was a little inconvenient).
The bartender takes my food order without writing it down (I later find out he is the manager). I ask him some questions about the vault door leading into the kitchen (the building used to be a bank, he says) and the small barrel (literally, a barrel!) of bourbon sitting on the bar (we age it downstairs, he says).
I try to practice my observational skills, noting the neon Eat and Drink signs hanging on the wall (just in case anyone needed instructions) and the switch in music from soft jazz to a more modern, upbeat track - as if telling the story of the building.
Truthfully, I’m a little bored.
The writing gives me a sense of purpose when I dine alone, which is refreshing, but it doesn’t give me the sense of community that I crave. I love sharing meals, always have, always will.
My plate arrives and I immediately feel the warmth from the french fries. Visible black pepper flakes hug the crispy potatoes and the ketchup fills up a tiny silver bucket on the side. The entire dish is lovely, as expected, and evokes a sense of gratitude for the evening, of course, but it lacks an anchor, something to tie the experience down in my memory.
My mind returns to fire from Thursday night.
By all accounts, the food tonight tastes better than the food on Thursday, but Thursday’s meal is what I’ll remember.
A few crucial, clarifying notes:
I will always recognize the privilege of food on the table and I don’t discredit my solo dining experiences. I’m also not always seeking a multi-hour meal and non-stop conversation. Some days the sound of clanking metal is enough to feel content. My goal here is to provide some different perspectives and encourage conversation around how we approach food and meals (especially in America where I live). Cooking appears to grow in popularity as social media inspires more and more elaborate dishes, but are we actually enjoying our meals? Are we using food as a way to signal status or to bring people together?
In a society that is increasingly starved for connection, I want to advocate for using food not only as a means of creative expression or survival, but also as a catalyst for community.
love this topic! I'm a huge foodie, and I always gravitate toward the experience or vibe of a meal (and the people around me!) versus the actual taste of the food. Good food can only get you so far!!