Welcome

One of my dad’s favorite stories to tell is about a camping trip he took as a boy. It was him, a bunch of teenagers, a few chaperones, and ten canoes. They piled into the canoes and embarked on a multi-day journey, stopping to set up camp every night. I couldn’t tell you where the trip was, what he saw, or if he even enjoyed it, because the only detail my father chooses to recall about that trip is the food. Specifically, how he wanted to go home and eat a home cooked meal more than anything else.

He tells us this story as an anecdote about the fallible nature of memory, but what I always took away from it was that a good meal can mean a lot more than we think.

When I think of our family, I happen to remember specific idyllic moments. In the style of a Thomas Kinkade painting or Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, I picture the holidays: decorations abound, a dessert table with nine pies and at least ten varieties of cookies, people conversing and singing and laughing, and more food than anyone could reasonably consume. Everyone in a chair, impossibly seated around a patchwork of different tables.

It is entirely possible that my underdeveloped brain editorialized on these memories and moments, but to me they are what define our family. The chaos of kids running around, people singing with various instruments, conversations in every corner, and food — everywhere.

In many ways it feels the exact same at the holidays as it does at Silver Bay, when everyone goes up to Lake George for a family reunion. Sitting around any of the tables with whoever is next to me, watching the sun dip over the mountains is a beautiful moment. It is only enhanced by the number of wonderful people who surround me. I have never gone hungry at a table full of family, and with the generosity and love that my family and friends bring, I’m sure I never will.

When I lived in Montreal, my cousin Arielle would invite me over for dinner every so often, and I would take a peaceful walk in the snow, excited at the prospect of her tagine, or a curry, or chicken, whatever she had cooking that night. I would share a table with Arielle, her husband, Hal, and their three children. Some of my biggest life decisions I made in their kitchen. I felt lucky as I watched each of the kids grow, especially when Asha started talking, Damien started running around, and Bela started climbing. I loved being a part of dinner time (which transitioned to bedtime), and even to see Arielle and Hal grow into their own family. It helped that Arielle always had a plate of food warm enough to battle the sub-zero temperatures of Quebec in the winter.

It was during my time in Montreal when I established a new family within my roommates. We would have family dinners every Tuesday evening, taking the time to catch up, hang out, and work together despite our busy schedules. I still have family dinners to this day with the friends around me, because I have learned that family, to me, includes my friends.

Sometime during winter 2020, I went skiing in Pennsylvania and called up my cousin Frankie on a whim to see if I could stop by for a visit. Even with the short notice, he welcomed me in and we talked and hung out for a good few hours while he made a delicious stuffed meatloaf, and I prepped a salad. I hadn’t had a chance to hang out with him in years, and sharing a meal was exactly what we needed.

I was reminded of his mom, of how my Aunt Deb used to live with us in Montclair one or two nights a week for most of my adolescent years. She would stop by Calandra’s Italian bakery in Caldwell, NJ, for some bread rolls (my sister’s favorite) before coming to our house. The best nights were when she would make breaded chicken cutlets for us. She would let me help out, teaching me to roll and flour and fry, though I was best at putting out snacks for us to enjoy in the meantime.

It was weeknights like these when my mom would whip up food out of a dream. I would go over to friend’s houses and stay for dinner, though on more than one occasion I wished to be home, eating the food that I knew and loved, not unlike my father, wishing to leave his camping trip.

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I once described this project as something about bringing myself together through the stories of me and people and food. The person that I shared this thought with said that “As if food weren’t intimate enough already, you’re adding this element of exploration and identity. It must make it a super beautiful project.” I hope it does.

I remember going to visit my cousin Ethan at his apartment one night during the summer when he moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. We were playing cards, and halfway through the game, he started talking about pickles he made. My friend and I tried them, and I haven’t stopped making pickles since.

In the last year, I have cooked, baked, experimented, and shared with whoever would join me at my table. I had friends and family come. Much to the chagrin of some, I would bake for parties. Yes, bake. Because people need food when they’re drinking and chips wouldn’t cut it, so I figured homemade bread would. Every dinner roll I made was eaten.

They were far from perfect (shaping dough doesn’t get easier after a beer or two), but that’s not the point. People ate and were happy and most importantly, they were together.

I have vivid memories of the summer of 2021, when my friend Alyssa and I would sit, eat a goat cheese drizzled with honey, and drink wine for hours on end. We attempted to play cards, but mostly we just talked. You’d be amazed how the problems of the world can be solved over a plate of cheese and crackers.

I made a Thanksgiving meal for my friends in November of 2021, and was on the phone with my mom almost the entire time. At one point we realized that we were cooking the turkey upside-down, and my mom firmly told me through the phone to not attempt to flip it, even if it would be prettier right-side up (I learned that the skin of the turkey only browns if it’s right-side up). I had strong hands helping mine, and so we flipped it, but absolutely did not tell her. My mother called us back no less than 15 minutes later to make sure I wasn’t on my way to the hospital with oil burns, knowing that I wouldn’t listen to her, and would flip a half-roasted turkey anyway.

Moments like these remind me that food can, in any way, bring people together. After all, I got my mom to be an integral part of that Thanksgiving even though she wasn’t there. After the last two years of separations, boundaries, and bubbles, and even after four years of living in a different country, I have felt connected to everyone through these recipes — friends and family alike. I got to learn just a teeny bit about what makes a particular recipe special. I got to share food with people I love, and experiment in ways that have brought us together (for better or for worse). I got to call some people to ask just exactly how to cook something, and have, invariably, learned more than I thought I would from this project.

This doesn’t mean that this cookbook is a finished work — far from it. There are still family recipes yet to be rediscovered, and experimentation journeys I haven’t yet embarked upon, but I think it captures a little slice of everyone I love, like a patchwork quilt, made up of hundreds of pieces. Those pieces, those meals, and those memories are what make up me.
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To everyone who helped, contributed, read, edited, listened to me conceptualize, or tried any of the hundreds of dishes I made this year, thank you. And to everyone else, I can’t wait to share a table with you again.