I Need You So Much Closer: Building Intimacy Through Food
About the series: “I Need You So Much Closer”
Intimacy — what does it mean to you? Death Cab for Cutie sings about it as a yearning impossibility in their 2000s classic “Transatlanticism,” some only view it as sex, others have an immense fear of the feeling. It can mean everything and nothing or be achieved with everyone and no one but yourself; it’s a complicated concept that changes with experience, especially in such an odd circumstance as quarantine. At Camp Thirlby, we relish in this vast range and simply view intimacy as an act of closeness — with romantic partners, friends, strangers, even yourself. It can be a simultaneously rewarding and terrifying experience, and self-isolation can amplify those feelings — especially when intimacy feels so unattainable. Our Camp Counselors have decided to reflect on the ways in which they find, or fail to find, this closeness, either inside or outside of the pandemic. Ranging from finding new ways of closeness during a time of crisis or rethinking past notions of intimacy, these odes to needing the affinity of people act as a reminder to its importance in a time when everything feels so distant.
The first thing I did this morning was call my mother to ask about how she cooked carrots when I was growing up. The remnants of my adolescent self demanded sweet honey carrots submerged in golden butter, a staple in our household. Afterwards, I sat down to write about how I express intimacy. My mind went straight to food. The two most referenced books in my childhood house were the Bible and Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” One of those books has stuck with me well beyond adolescence (can you guess which one?). I don’t necessarily think everyone needs to learn how to debone a whole chicken in order to strengthen their relationships, but there are opportunities for connection in every step of acquiring, cooking and eating food. Food is not just fuel, it is an expression of love and a living record of the past.
When my brother and I were small, the grocery store was our jungle gym. There was never any serious damage, but we did engage in many ninja fights in the bread aisle. I would push him around in a cart and strangers would stop us to ask which aisle I found him in.
A few years after I stopped brawling with my siblings in public, I was 19 and living on my own for the first time. Broke and a bit despondent, I went to my local Lidl. My card got declined on a ten dollar food haul. Before I had time to be embarrassed, the woman in line behind me swiftly swiped her card on my order and sent me on my way. I thanked her, and she told me to pass it on someday. It was a small deed and she probably forgot about the exchange minutes later, but I went directly to my car and cried into the steering wheel. Moments like that don’t immediately fix all your problems, but a stranger buying my broccoli was a step — I felt cared for by the kindness of strangers in the midst of a personal crisis.
Making pasta for my friends was my first step into understanding my infatuation with cooking. I hated the idea that I had to cook just because I was a woman But my best friend and I were on completely different schedules and we needed an excuse — cooking together — to be near each other. It started with a conversation on preferences. She is an avid meat eater and I am a vegetarian. After much deliberation, we landed on fettucini. We spent many afternoons twirling lemony butter coated noodles with our forks while we caught up on each other’s lives.
I fell in love for the first time while working as a baker in a tiny town tucked away in the Virginia foothills. I spent many frosty winter mornings and dusty summer evenings baking muffins and trying to make this girl laugh. Lemon poppy seed muffins were her favorite. I would always make an extra for her so I had an excuse to sit with her for a minute.
I wanted to do everything with her in a place where there was nothing to do but loiter in empty parking lots. Our solution to this boredom was to picnic on the top of my car. We would get pizza slathered with cheese and tomato topped with arugula. Then we would perch ourselves on the roof of my junker Volkswagen. We’d wave at passersby and talk about our insecurities. Sometimes we would scrap our tips together and go to the local sushi restaurant. I remember laughing in between salmon rolls and reaching for the check. She insisted on paying because I was her girlfriend and she wanted to bless me. I’m now distant from those days, but the memories of eating with my first love still leave me with a warm feeling.
As a teenager, I would pop into my friend’s family Christmases like I was shopping for new homes. The holidays weren’t always my favorite time of year — I didn’t like much about it besides my mom’s Yorkshire pudding. Eventually, I found a girl who hated Christmas just as much as I did. She always had nothing but aged parmesan in her fridge; I always had everything but parmesan in mine. On Christmas day, we escaped from our families as soon as possible and convened at her apartment. I threw together a saucy tomato zucchini mess and ate with her, sitting on her floor. We’d chat about family drama and revel in the mutual understanding we provided each other. After a while, our conversations stopped being about the pain of the past and started being about the lives we wanted. We had each other and we had our own tradition — it felt comforting to have someone to care for in the presence of home cooked meals.
During the quarantine, I came out to my mom over text. It went as well as it could have. While I knew that she’d always love me, that didn’t erase the world she was brought up in. We didn’t see each other for about a month after my coming out. Our reunion was tense — we were like two deer, frozen in a clearing staring at each other, afraid to move even an inch. I anticipated this, but I also remembered how she bathed my childhood in buttery carrots, so I made her sweet pillowy challah bread to return the favor. Looking for a vantage point to connect, she pounced on the glossy loaf. We ate it and talked about small things like maple butter and raw honey. It was a peace offering and a small step forward.
When I think about America’s “get it over with” attitude about cooking, I think about the line from Fleabag — “Why believe in something so awful, when you can believe in something wonderful?” You can add such richness to life if you allow yourself. With a home-cooked meal, you can show people you love them without saying a word. Why waste the opportunity to produce beauty? There are finite hours you have to spend with your friends and family, so if you do decide to cook — salt your pasta and blanching water. Use whole spices. And when you have the time, make it from scratch and share it with someone you love.
About the Author
Meredithe Ettrich (she/her) is a filmmaker and writer. After beginning her career as a freelance photographer she found her place in the world of storytelling and hasn’t looked back since. When she doesn’t have a camera around her neck she is baking or reading books about art history. You can follow her on Instagram or Twitter to see her work.
