A trip to Brighton Beach
and returning to myself
It probably goes without saying that food (and cooking) is the core of who I am. I often joke around and say that I’m a jack of no trades and master of one; that the apex of my knowledge centers wholly and exclusively on food. And not just my knowledge, but my personality: when I want to have a good time, I meet friends at a wine bar or a new restaurant we’ve been meaning to try. When I want to relax, I watch detailed documentaries about regional cuisines in China. When I want to go on an adventure, I plan out a 3-5 stop tour in whatever cultural neighborhood I’ve been researching. When I’m sad, I order food that makes me happy. When I’m happy, I celebrate with food. How to cook and what to eat are things that come naturally to me when so many other things don’t.
The toughest part of the last few months of my life and of the grief process in general (that’s what it feels like when you go through a pretty epic life shift) has been the way it’s affected my relationship with food. This effect isn’t in isolation; it’s a symptom of this general dissociation I feel. I don’t always feel like *me.* Sometimes it lasts an hour, sometimes a day, sometimes more - and that’s when it gets scary. Who am I when I’m not hungry? And I don’t just mean physical hunger, I mean the metaphorical kind, too - the lust for life. I hate even typing this out because it forces me to acknowledge that there are times when I’m not okay and I’m not myself. The “me” I’ve always been starts to feel like a person I once knew and in those moments, I get worried I’ll never get her back.
But I see snippets of her all the time. I see her when a new food show on Korean soup culture comes up on the Netflix cue and a binge is in order or when The Infatuation’s newsletter about super cute reasonably priced restaurants in NYC hits the inbox and gets more than a cursory glance. But most importantly and most frequently, I see her in others. I see her when the bartender takes extra care making an MSG martini for an eager and excited guest. I see her when the server’s speech speeds up with excitement as she describes how the trout roe tempura changes lives. I see her when the chef focuses diligently on making the most perfect, glossy, rich carbonara.
I’m still figuring this all out - finding the old me within the new me, if you will. And I can’t thank you enough for sticking around.
Below is a recap of my time in Brighton Beach last week, a place that always reminds me who I am, available to paid subscribers. Thank you so much for supporting my work.
