Ok, I have been silent. Not for want of time to write, although that is certainly short. But because I am still struggling with my story, and because every day life sucks the marrow out of one’s bones. It really does.
But the last few days I have been eating too much, worrying about it, promising to stop, and then eating some more. And it is not entirely unconnected to my story or the things I am telling people here.
My family is generous with food. As in many other families, but by no means all, food is an expression of love. In fact it may be the main way we express love. In some families it is the quality of the food that expresses love, but in mine it is the quantity, the generosity of the offering. It has always been that way, and so it was, I believe, for my mother as a child.
When I was growing up we ate steak and roasts every week, while my friends considered mince and sausages a treat. They had potato chips and fairy sprinkles sandwiches, and I had ham every day. They ate salads with iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and grated carrots. We ate meat and potatoes and three other veggies every night. My mother was not a better cook than theirs, but she cooked better food. And there was plenty of it.
When our family entertain, then and now, there is always an abundance of food. No dish every runs out. There are always leftovers. People leave the table groaning with excess and loosening their belts. Anything less than this would bring us shame. There can be no worse crime than under-catering. So it has always been and always will be.
Recently I attended a celebration where, had I not come bearing unasked for extra offerings, there would not have been, or just barely have been, enough food for the numbers present. I would have died of shame if it was my party, but no one else appeared to notice or care. Nor should they, of course. It is my hang-up, nobody elses’. By contrast, just this last week, I catered a dinner that was very casual and modest by my standards. Even so, I baked a pie to serve six that could easily have done ten or more guests. I had exactly double the quantity of side dishes we could actually eat. There were leftovers for the next three days. But I could not have done otherwise if I tried. It is in my DNA.
Of course the corollary to all of this food generosity, this ridiculous waste and extravagance, is that I, and those who I feed, eat far too much. It does my guests no harm. For them it is an occasional indulgence. But it is not good for me, or for my family when I was feeding a family, or for anyone I cook for on a regular basis. It might be enjoyable, but it is not good for them or me.
When I was in France I wrote about food and my relationship to it. The situation shaped my approach. I was alone most of the time, and I did not need to cook for anyone. My days had a life of their own that was not based around breakfast, lunch and dinner. I did not get to lunch time desperate for a distraction, or find myself looking for a treat after dinner because I needed to relax. (Yes, I know – using food to satisfy emotional needs is NOT GOOD.) So I really did eat much less, and much less frequently, notwithstanding all those lovely food photographs I posted on FaceBook.
But back in NZ I am back in the same groove in so many ways, and whilst that is not all bad, it is a disaster when it comes to eating. So it is not just my eating habits that I need to break, but the pattern of life that shapes my dietary regime. That is what I need to work on next.
And yet I will not and do not want to shake my addition to over-catering for events and celebrations. There are some things in life that should be overblown. Small servings and unadorned food bespeak a meanness of spirit to me. When I invite people to celebrate and I offer food, it has to be food worthy of the celebration. Food and drink and music and surroundings and good company go together. That is one of the good things I learnt growing up, and I have taught my girls the same thing. I hope.
Now all I have to do is figure out how to confine that approach to those occasions when I am feeding others, and to do differently in my day to day life. Oh, and I have to remember to send the leftovers home with my guests or bin them. Not store in the fridge to trip me up for the rest of the week.
My grandmother’s story …. ? Well maybe next time I am scouring the fridge for an after-dinner snack I will come and get on with that instead.
But of course you just described me perfectly too. It is stamped in our DNA and the girls are the same. I like to think it is our generous nature and the pleasure of entertaining… though I seem to be doing that less lately.
Must be DNA from your mother’s side of the family! I remember that Poppa wasn’t an eater – he was a pretty stringy individual too – and meals at Jubilee Ave were very frugal. My mother (a Kelly) hated cooking and I and my brother grew up in a state of constant hunger. Needless to say, when I got my own household, I cooked up a storm every single day and I think I’ve passed on a love of entertaining, music, conviviality and quality food to my sons, who are both accomplished in the kitchen and great hosts. I take this as a triumph over my miserable upbringing, which seemed to be based entirely on the principle of withholding.