Without exchanging a word, you commune daily with plants and animals

Lately, as the afternoons quickly fade to evening, I find myself chopping tomatoes, celery, or newly harvested delicata squash, in a desperate attempt to make another pot of sauce or stew. From time to time, I peek out the front window taking in the last of the sunlight. In order to enjoy the rich colors of the autumn sunsets I have to orient my view to the southwestern sky. I pause, breathe and smile. Everyday I’m able to commune with an ancient rhythm through food. 

In doing so, I feel a connection to others around the world as well as this town who are doing the same – moving around the gravitational pull of a pot slowly simmering on the stove. These moments are acts of creation, artistry, and prayer. And because they’re expressed silently through our sensorial language, they have the ability to bridge cultural and geographic gaps. 

Here’s the thing, by cooking and sharing family recipes we’re actually sharing a collective sensorial experience. You have the honor and delight in a meal which you or someone has prepared for you. Regardless of how meticulous they’ve been to recreate it or give it their signature touch, one thing’s for certain, your eating experience bridges time, space, and place. This is the power of food. It connects us to people, places, and most importantly nature (the source of it all). It happens both literally and conceptually. Consider it, you’re able to partake of an experience infused with the ancient rhythms of plants and animals without exchanging a single word. 

It’s because flavor is a sensation. It’s something we experience with our eyes, nose, and mouth. Really, all the senses. It mines a deeper truth underneath the basic act of eating merely for taste alone. Over time the dishes you make may have slight variations – your personal touch. However, the feeling and sensual pleasure remains constant. I love it because it’s a threshold experience to share with family members long gone or communities I’ve never met. It’s truly special; an ancient conversation that remains fresh each time I take a bite. 

I have this incredible recipe from my aunt, who learned it from her mother, who most likely learned it from hers. It’s a recipe from southern Italy and the origin, well, who knows. Its lineage may extend to the east or south to northern Africa. Much like the humans that make them, recipes travel. Yet regardless of the origin, what matters is the feeling of contentment we all share having eaten it.  

I like to think how Rosa and I are sharing a singular moment. Though we never cooked together, nor ate together, we are together. Time bends when we both take that first delicious bite. 

The pungency of dried mint and oregano combined with the juice of the tomato and onion is delightful. Plunging our fingers into a jar of coarse salt to sweat the eggplant. Watching and smelling the pot bubble away knowing just when it was ready by the consistency and smell. 

Over the years my aunt has made a few adjustments. They are subtle, yet she’s made it hers. Now, as it has become part of my story, I add just a touch more mint and less capers. It’s no secret, just a continuation of a story which began far away and a long time ago. 

It reminds me of a quote by the Finnish architect, Alvar Aalto –

Architecture and its details are in some way all part of biology. Perhaps they are, for instance, like some big salmon or trout. They are not born fully grown; they are not even born in the sea or water where they normally live. They are born hundreds of miles away from their home grounds, where the rivers narrow to tiny streams. Just as it takes time for a speck of fish to spawn to mature into a fully-grown fish, so we need time for everything that develops and crystallizes in our world of ideas.

Just like the salmon’s origin is far inland, the avenue that connects it to the rivers and the deep sea is water, so too does flavor and taste connect us with the web of humanity, present and past.