Food As Peace Offering - No. 34

And poetry you should read with a fork.

Welcome to Just Peachy! If you haven’t already, please subscribe to my newsletter to receive a monthly grin. Go ahead; I’ll wait.

What can you expect in each newsletter? Sweet stories from women and non-binary people in food. These are chefs, restauranteurs, farmers, and creatives—all with unique stories that connect us to food through intimacy, memory, and experience.

It’s 6:45am. The sun has yet to touch the sky but the air is filled with Turkish coffee. By now, I know this scent all too well. The sweetness in the percolator, the bitterness in droplets that trickle down the sides and strike the gas flame. You always forget and let it overflow, just as it’s about to finish. Building and breaking through the wall and into my barely open eyes—it is your silent way of saying “I’m sorry,” and when you’ve done nothing at all, a reminder that you just care. It would be nothing new to point out that the act of preparing food for anyone in itself is a love language. Whether it was your mom making soup when you were sick as a child or a romantic partner making you coffee every morning. But what is it about food that feels so intimate?

Is it that it touches our lips? That others taste it before we do and count on our reaction? Why are so many memories and emotions; pride, happiness, anger, all tucked within a shared bite? And how can food hold power over our relationships—causing strife or ending arguments? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve leaned over the pot of a partner micromanaging the way they boil their beans or scramble their eggs—reminding them that I’m a chef, and know a tip for how that could be better or when I just can’t keep my thoughts to myself and end up implying that they’re “doing it wrong.” Or on the opposite end, how many times I’ve shown up with a cookie as an apology when words are really hard. Food holds power.

“Tasting you is like, standing beneath the romantic creamsicle glow of dulling overhead streetlamps. In the same way I pretended their electric buzz was idyllic, a gentle cricket by the lake, I pretended the harsh pavement beneath my feet a pathetic field of dandelions, I pretended the world was a tart filled with sweet pastry cream. And for the two minutes it took to consume your world, well, that would be enough.”

“Let the haze lift from that little oven, set to 350 inside that little house, we’d build together. Where each roll promises to be tightly wound like the tires on your bike. Where ginger surprises someone, so routine. Together, at the edge of the wood on an empty plot—in another life. —I’ll wait for you there.”

These thoughts, along with so many more are the impetuous behind the zine, Crumbs of Affection, I started with friends around this time last year. Its intent was to bring together a collection of short stories, poetry, recipes, and art that feel incredibly intimate. Each contribution is inspired by a food memory—whether it be nostalgic, longing, or habitual. They are all incredibly relatable regardless of your experience. And while I still may publish a version of this at some point, I am a major perfectionist and haven’t been able to call it “finished,” enough to print. So, I’ve decided to post it over the course of this year in excerpts; as a series. Each post will highlight the artist or writer, include the piece, and since a large portion of the writing is also my own, give my readers a bigger insight into the other types of illustration and writing I do outside of this blog. I’m so excited to share it in this way, and hope you are able to connect to this series.

“Brewing in my mind, I can almost smell your coffee. In drips and drabs, I swirl into your cup. The perfect foam, I am dancing on your lips. Sliding down your throat, I am cold. —You should have left me behind.”

The first collection of poems I’m sharing throughout this post are my own. Several of which, are meant to be read in succession to tell the story of a classic relationship arc. Much of my work focuses on lingering thoughts; expectations you can’t let go of, and the eventual acceptance of reality. My poetry is really honest and pulls from memory, fixation, and dissociation, all using food as metaphor. My process often involves writing short stories about moments of significance and removing specific lines to pair with tactile adjectives or metaphors that make the memory feel present. Almost as though reliving the moment.

“When we met you seemed so whole, sitting up there in the case. I told the waitress I’d have a taste. Dream for a moment, of how it would feel o love something so simple. With each bite I took, you got smaller, and your crust, less shiny. I bit off much more than I could chew. Into the soft fold of my napkin, I spit you out when I thought no one was looking.”

“Plug the holes those little kisses, missed moments, and words unspoken left you with. Pour disappointment into a bowl and devour me with a spoon, until no longer empty. Sprinkle of salt, optional.”

My illustrations are done in coordination with the poetry, either before or after I’ve completed the piece. The flowerhead women I use in my illustrations are a particular style I’ve been doodling in for the last five years or so. They are meant to create ambiguity and allow anyone, regardless of gender to feel they can relate to a memory within the piece—I first started drawing them as the capper to my journal entries. I would be writing, let’s say at a coffee shop, cafe, or somewhere in my home, and then draw myself sitting in the scene from behind, as if being watched by myself, except I’m a flowerhead woman. I’m not sure why I started doing this. It’s honestly a little creepy. But I am creepy. And it felt really meta and I liked it, so I kept drawing them.

“In a medium bowl combine 2 cups flour, 1 cup sugar, and 3 heaping handfuls of a cream, less broken. Using a pastry blender cut in beautiful curves, charming banter, fresh vanilla bean for depth. Powder my surface. Knead, for what feels like hours. Gather me into a ball, sprinkle with cold water, letting drops fall down legs. Pat me down with a smooth towel, the type that hugs all of the parts of me I don’t know yet to love. —Build me from scratch.”

“I am a hand searching desperately inside a barren bag of chips. Blind I brush the edges and imagine grazing something salt & vinegar, sour cream & onion, barbeque? Panicked I’d settle for anything whole, curved, crisp. Instead my knuckles scrape against sharp shards, and my cuts burn against thick grains of salt. —kiss my wounds.”

One of the pivotal points of starting Just Peachy was to create a space that discusses humanistic aspects of food; our creativity using it, our relationship with it, or simply memories that linger in a warm coffee-scented breeze. The theme of this zine and the power of the women behind these stories tie perfectly into this notion. What better place to share it than here?

I’ll leave you with the questions we started with for further thought, or hey—you could even respond in the comments. Tell me, what is it about food that feels so intimate?

Is it that it touches our lips? That others taste it before we do and count on our reaction? That we make it for a special ocassion? Why are so many memories and emotions; pride, happiness, anger, all tucked within a shared bite? And how can food hold power over our relationships—causing strife or ending arguments? Think about it. Food holds power.

Thank you again for subscribing to Just Peachy! If you liked this post or related to the content in some way, please let me know. Leave a comment or send me a personal message. I would love to hear from you.

I am also opening up the option to pledge a monthly amount to my work ($8). If I reach 20 pledges, I will provide a members only monthly recipe and additional content. If you like what you’re reading, please consider it as an option.