Zuppa Toscana. That’s my dish. When I don’t know what to make, when I’m having people over, when it’s the middle of an icy winter or the heat of summer, the answer was always zuppa toscana. I got the recipe off Pinterest, one of those Olive Garden copycats, but my version put theirs to shame. Perfectly cubed potatoes, spinach instead of kale; it was just right. I made it once every two weeks, until I stopped, until I couldn’t anymore. It wasn’t only because I hardly had a desire to cook much anymore, no, food has memories, flavors take us back, and I don’t want to go where my soup would take me. It might sound insane, but I know it isn’t, it actually may be one of the most rational responses I’ve had to something. Zuppa Toscana was a signature meal in my marriage, we even prepared it once together on the large, family beach trip to the Outer Banks. One house, thirty people, and a massive pot of my favorite soup to share. Last week, I made my soup again. It had been so long, but I didn’t need the recipe, it was ingrained in my heart.
Food has a way of meeting us where we are. Feeling nostalgic? I’m making my mom’s chili. Want something easy? White people taco night. Need a moment to calm yourself? Time to make banana bread. It’s these little habits of human nature I find most fascinating, the connection between our tastebuds and memories, how the right meal can conjure the right feeling. I’ve gone through my different phases with food in my lifetime. As a child, I only wanted mashed potatoes. As a teenager, I would cry if I ate over a thousand calories a day. As an adult, I find the most insane serotonin rush from making a grocery list. Each of these phases has shaped a lot about the way I view food now, for the good, or for the bad.
I used to cry a lot because I thought I was overweight. Five days a week, I would run six miles on the treadmill, track my calories intensely, and get so disappointed in myself when the scale never went down. The doctor asked me why I ran so much, why I ate so little, and she told me she believed I had anorexia; I told her she was wrong. It took me a really, really long time to get my eating and health in order. To stop running because it would ‘make me skinny’, to eat rice and butter because those things are okay, to stop looking at calories; I went years without stepping on a scale. Now, I’m running again, but in a way I never used to. I run because I’m thankful for my body, and I try my best to give it the protein fuel. This means protein, and enough carbs that if my past self could see it, she’d be mortified. But you know what? I’m so happy now, so much happier than I used to be, but I still have to avoid looking at calories, and stepping on the scale.
So, what do these things have to do with each other, and why am I writing about it now? The simple answer would be, I’ve used food, something that used to be my enemy, as a means to help me heal. When bad thoughts come, about starving myself again or how I really need to check the scale, I instead think of how nice and yummy a meal I can make for myself to fuel for my next run. I’ve created some really amazing recipes, but it’s not without effort. Thankfully, because of what I’ve been through, I can look back on what I did wrong, what I did right, and I can apply those lessons into how I approach my life now. Running isn’t bad, my mindset was. Eating isn’t bad, my approach was. Sometimes, a bad experience can taint all the good memories, and we can keep ourselves from learning or moving forward, because we’re afraid to face, or we don’t know how to reclaim. I’ve found this applies to the way I’ve been thinking about my marriage since I returned from America.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder if it ever actually happened. If I ever knew him for nine years, if we actually had all those days together, and quietly, I’ll say his name out loud. I don’t do it often, but when I do, it’s a reminder to me that it was all real. This morning, I came across a photo of us at sixteen, I smiled and said to myself, “This is really cute.” For two years, I haven’t let myself look back on us with fondness, only disdain, and I’ve felt the way that cloud of hate has moved into my life. I’ve been afraid of letting people in, terrified of having a relationship again; so scared of losing myself, someone I love, or the family that comes with them. Because, when you lose someone you were with for so long, you don’t just lose them, you lose a part of you, and you lose a found family. But, against every single odd, I fell in love again. Unwillingly, kicking, arguing against all the logical reasons, presenting myself as the worst partner possible; yet somehow, someone fell in love with me, and I fell in love with him. Loving him, it reminds me of all the good that there can be in sharing a life with someone. There can be having a favorite tv show, running and jumping into his arms when he comes to visit, and having a call with at night. It seems that, in the shadow, of the bad, I’d forgotten all that good, but just like eating and running, I’m starting to reclaim love, too.
The bright side is, when we can learn from and reclaim those situations in the past, we open ourselves to a new world of better. If I would have stayed afraid of running, I wouldn’t be in the Sydney marathon. If I would’ve stayed afraid of food, I wouldn’t have discovered that I like Indian food, can make a mean satay chicken, or that coconut actually doesn’t taste that awful. Now, because I’m learning what it means to love and be loved again, I can look back on the past with a lot less resentment. Just because I acknowledge that there were wonderful times, doesn’t mean there weren’t bad times, it only means I want to shift my focus to being a person fueled by compassion and forgiveness, rather than bitterness and resentment. I can be someone who makes zuppa toscana, and smiles at the past memories, but also shifts her focus on the present and future times making it. I have a few more recipes I want to make, one in particular that my former mother-in-law taught me, that I know will cause me both pain and joy to create. But really, I think the lesson and joy I’ll get to have in reclaiming these meals, these memories, is worth so much than holding onto and seeing only the pain.
Yours Truly,
the Brightside Blonde