Food as love.


If you’ve ever read  The Five Languages of Love book, or done one of those flippant Facebook quizzes, you’ve probably heard of the concept that we fall into particular camps regarding how we express our love for another – romantic or otherwise. Inconveniently, we also use this filter to perceive the actions of others as loving or not. If you’re curious, feel free to do an online search for the relevant terms and discover if you do perceive the actions of others as loving, and I will use the term nurturing as well. The fun bit is seeing if you and your partner, if you have one, view things the same way. I’m betting you don’t.

One of the main ways I demonstrate my love towards someone is to cook for them. Food is and has always been a big part of my life so this isn’t exactly surprising. I recall being sixteen and cooking a dish which at the time was not only a favourite of mine but also I considered being fairly cutting edge. Please bear in mind it was the 1980’s.

There was this guy I was trying to impress and hopefully get further along the baseball diamond scenario with (first base, second base – you with me?).  I even had two versions of this winner dish. The classic version was pan fried chicken breast fillet with a bacon and avocado cream sauce. I know, told you it would be classic. My alternative version was pasta with a chicken, bacon, avocado and cream sauce. Even now as I type these words, I cringe at the thought of dry stringy chicken meat (which I’m sure it was with the fear of food poisoning looming over my head), hard cooked nubs of bacon and under-ripe soapy tasting avocado in a too sweet creamy bath.

I can’t remember his name only that my parents had gone away to their beach house for the weekend and the coast was clear. I can picture a pimply face, short dark hair and him leaning against the kitchen bench whilst I tried to win him over with my kitchen confidence. The wine was Mateus rose – that classic semi-sweet from Portugal. I won’t reveal how well my efforts were received as my mum might read this.

A really beautiful part of the school that my children attended was the rosters that were set up when the class had a new mother. Healthy meals were provided that would nourish the family of the new baby. It was a Steiner school that my children attended so many dietary variations such as vegetarian, allium/dairy/gluten-free and so on had to be respected.

Only a few years ago, one gentleman I had started dating was quite strict on only consuming free range meats and had been lamenting the dearth of smallgoods that fit with his self-imposed parameters. My local organic store stocked a wide selection so I gathered salamis, sliced cured products and sausages into a bouquet complete with tissue paper wrapping. Again, decorum will prevent me from delving into precisely how grateful he was but I’m sure you can figure it out.

What I’m saying is nourishing people with food is one significant way that I show how I care. Of course, I do like compliments and affirmations of I love you but if I cook for you, it’s because I love you. The next bit is figuring out how other people are saying it to me.

unique-ness

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about the threads that pull seemingly disparate pieces of my work together. Whilst I may have an idea going into something the sheer nature of arting/playing means that the result isn’t always an intended one. I see value in and enjoy the process of exploring an idea, a theme, a medium. a technique. It just doesn’t always got to plan.

Just like now with this post, I’m already off on a tangent diverting from my initial thrust.  (I’m actually thinking of getting someone to interview me about my art and recording the session to see where my brain takes me that usually my fingers are too slow to capture. This, I see, is a parallel idea to the Hemingway “Write Drunk. Edit Sober” quote/misquote,)

Anyways…

I’m thinking about the ideas of uniqueness. Fingerprints, how they relate to contours, landscapes, landscapes of the female body. Also our eyes, doorway to our soul(?) their unique colours and patterns. Surely we don’t refer to them as eyescapes. Looking at leaves, they all have a ‘scape’. 


There’s actually not too much to write about this cause mostly it’s still trapped inside my head, tangled, arse over tit.

Just so you know, I really like it when people comment here rather than just a FB like. To me, it feels like you’ve actually read it.
I’m guilty of this behaviour also. I’m trying to change. Unless, I’m stalking you – then I read but not comment.

Final Tokyo chapter

Walking up a side street we spied a coolroom of hanging meat on the second floor of a restaurant. Naturally we were drawn to investigate. Gonpachi hadn’t exactly satisfied. Up we wandered and soon we found ourselves sitting down with some jamon, terrine, cheese and baguette, a rose wine for me and a red wine for Steve = Happy days! 

This place was a delicious, delightful respite. Le Petit Marche in a back street of Roppongi was just what the doctor(chef?) ordered. Fortunately it was mostly patronised by Asian customers with only one other Western couple (American, I think).

 It was from here that we walked up to Kento’s – a 50s/60s pop club which although was a bar, looked more like an american diner. The band does 15 minutes on, 15 minutes off throughout the evening of american 50s/60s pop – with the occasional Abba song thrown in for good measure. The band is appropriately attired and coiffed wooing the audience who really seem to get into the swing of things even if they have little to no sense of musical timing. I drank some sweet garishly coloured cocktails; Steve had some 12 year old Yamazaki whiskey. All was somehow right with the world.

Coming home along the main street where lots of restaurants and clubs are situated was a different experience altogether. So many noisy westerners that I became quite resentful. It’s an odd feeling because I am a westerner but I was almost offended by the presence of so many westerners. I’m still processing that bit.

One guy deliberately tried to bump into me either to pickpocket(of which I had nothing on me) or to ‘cop a feel’. Either intentions aren’t pleasing but that’s honestly the only unpleasant experience like that on the whole trip.
All in all, despite many instances of language barrier, we have fared very well. Japanese people, as a culture, are very honest. They also, on the whole, have very good english language skills. Way better than our ridiculously small grasp of Japanese.
Note to self – learn more basic language skills of the country I’m travelling to.