I come from generations of Mangia. I like to feed people. I wait in anticipation as they take their first bite. I look for a glimmer of foodie sensibility: a subtle nod, the sensory aha moment, the sweet smile of pure delight as flavors and textures and tinctures ignite their palates.
The words, “OMG, this is good. Sooooooo good!”
Music to my ears.
I have been cooking a lot this past few weeks. This can be a little tricky in my household. We live alone, my husband and I. I am a celebratory eater. My husband is a cautious connoisseur. I like to take a walk on the wild side. He likes his old favorites, mostly white on white. Chicken. Potatoes. Cottage cheese.
A couple weeks ago I tried to sneak some yellow squash into a largely potato-based soup thinking that was a lovely compromise. My beloved reached for the Tabasco totally obscuring the cumin brown butter drizzle that delicately topped this steamy bowl of sumptuous soup. Needless to say he didn’t touch the beet crust pizza I prepared last week. Sadly, there are three more balls of pink pizza dough waiting expectantly in my refrigerator.
That’s okay. My husband is here to teach me the lessons I have yet to learn, like how to feed myself after a lifetime of feeding others.
But this summer I find myself feeding everyone in my wake. Unsuspecting neighbors with whom I’ve brushed shoulders over a pile of autumn leaves or drifting snow are now seeing very different piles. The overflow from my kitchen. I didn’t even question this somewhat excessive food foray until Monday. My husband and I were hunkered down in a hotel room in Annapolis after spending a lovely afternoon with his mom, part paperwork, and … the better part … taking her to Cantler’s Riverside Inn for steamed hardshell crabs. I opened a book his sister had given me with the note, “Look what my father left me—my favorite book. I found it in his workshop. Take it home and read it.”
I started reading. It had been a very long time since I had picked up a book by Pat Conroy. This one begins with a suicide. The protagonist’s wife leaps to her death from the Silas Pearlman Bridge in Charleston, South Carolina. I brace myself. I’m not sure I have the emotional fortitude to read this book right now. I read on. A year later he moves to Italy to begin life anew, taking his small daughter with him.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Italy. Yes, I can read this. There’s bound to be a food story in here somewhere.
And then I read the words:
“After her funeral, a sadness took over me that seemed permanent, and I lost myself in the details and technicalities connected to death in the south. Great sorrow still needs to be fed and I dealt with my disconsolate emptiness by feeding everyone who gathered around me to offer their support … I lost myself in the oils and condiments of my well-stocked kitchen. I fatted up my friends and family, attempted complicated recipes I had put off making … I alternated between cooking and weeping … I prayed, I suffered, I grieved … and I cooked fabulous meals.” Pat Conroy | Beach Music
Flashback: I see myself walking that jar of Buttermilk Squash Soup and a little bottle of cumin seed to my next-door neighbor’s home two weeks ago. I see myself telling him how to toast the cumin seeds until fragrant and then pound them into a fine powder so that he can finish the soup with a cumin brown butter drizzle. I watch his eyes glaze over. (Maybe I should have just handed him a bottle of Tabasco.) I think to myself: Is that what I’m doing? Losing myself in the oils and condiments and pizza stones and pastry boards of my well-stocked kitchen because great sorrow needs to be fed?
Perhaps.
And with that, I’m honoring the generations of “mangia” who have gone before me. Generations of women who have nurtured and nourished and nestled their loved ones with food. Beautiful food, lovingly prepared. Food that holds stories and memories and yes, a myriad of “mangia.”
And now my friends it’s time to feed YOU.
My next round of Eat Your Way to Gorgeous begins in July. For me, this is simply another way to feed the women who feed me every single day with their curiosity and courage, open hearts and inquiring minds. We’ll talk food. We’ll snap photos. We’ll share stories. And, we’ll redefine “gorgeous.”
I’ll feed you and you’ll feed me.
Are you ready? Registration closes shortly.
17 thoughts on “Mangia”
You don’t write personal narratives dear Sue Ann. You write poetry. This is beautiful and I was right there with you at the dinner table with your husband, standing over your stove sneaking in that yellow veggie, opening that book to the note your sister-in-law wrote you, to neighborhood door knocking.
You always sweep me up and away. XO
Isn’t it enlightening how the human experience feels so unique when it happens to us, but when examined, we often find how universal the threads truly are? I wish I lived next door to you. I would toast and pound the cumin seeds perfectly. I’m also lusting after that beet pizza dough, and big hugs! Sending love, Caren♥
From your old friend Roberta…….this was beautiful. And Beach Music is my all time favorite book. I miss you.
Roberta! So good to hear your “voice.” I miss you, too. Let’s plan a reunion.
” how to feed myself after a lifetime of feeding others.” I married a man who is teaching me to appreciate what I have to offer myself by … not exactly “getting” everything I have to offer… but by accepting who I am whole-heartedly.
My husband has never once asked me to feed him even though that is WHO I AM. I am the one who nourishes those around me fairly naturally.
I think it is fascinating that I chose an enigma of a partner of doesn’t need what I most surely offer. This has caused me tons of grief over the years.
And pause.
Then tears.
Because, if he doesn’t need me to nourish him, why did he pick me???
Could it be that he just likes me?
???
Just likes me for who I am? Without DOING anything?
Lots of tears as I rest into this one.
This is the lesson of my marriage. And of finding my own skin.
So nice to sit at the table with you and share your subtle spices. I would never ask for the Tobasco. 🙂
oh my dear….what a lovely story…it touched my heart & my soul…i would love to share your food & your friendship <3
Ahhh food… and yes, the memories from years past and recently. Lovely story! {I’m fortunate that my husband is the cook in the family, I’m the baker… and need to be more cognizant of my reactions to the gifts of new food that he cooks}.
Yes, sorrow needs feeding! I remember having a wonderful feast for everyone after my Mum’s funeral. So many wonderful people brought food to share. I love feeding people too! My son and a friend came to stay with me for a week-end on retreat recently! Oh, what was I going to cook! I made a mess of the first nights dinner, a morrocan lamb, made a great raspberry and apple dessert and the next night, well i bought fish that was only caught 2 hours before! so yum, that hardly needed any cooking, just a little butter salt and pepper and a salad! Love fresh produce.
Healing happens in so many ways. Your words are balm to broken hearts. <3
Your writing is as nourishing for us as the food you prepare. I can absolutely see how the pain and sorrow of your loss needs the love and comfort from your cooking. Keep doing what you need to nurture your heart. XO
doesn’t grief present itself in a myriad of unusual ways, sue ann? thank you for taking us on a glimpse of your journey to healing. (and oh, how i loved seeing that word . . . mangia. reminds me so much of my childhood, living next door to my italian grandma and grandpa.)
I can really see how nourishing feeding is, on so many levels. Beautifully written post Anne.
Wonderful post! It is very heartwarming to hear your take and experience with nourishment, both physical and nourishment of the soul. Thank you for sharing this!
Nourish one of my favorite words. I read beach music some years ago…maybe a revisit. Beautiful as always Sue Ann
Thank you
Yes . . .”great sorrow, needs to be fed”. Your words always carry me somewhere deep and nourishing . . . like the food you describe that blesses your table, your words, touch my heart. xoxoox
I love your writing! I just want to read everything, and eat everything! (I don’t really want to cook anything – is there an option for that?) This is gold.
Beautiful Sue Ann! I’ll second the sentiment of feeling swept up by your poetic narrative. There is a palpable energy in your writing these days that is so exciting to read. And I’ll take a bowl of that sumptuous soup with cumin brown butter. Mmmmm. Feeling nourished. xoxo