|
The Moon just conjoined Jupiter in Cancer for the last time in twelve years. I went to the grocers to buy eggs, then wandered around the aisles trying to decide what else I needed to buy. On Monday my friend sent me a photo of congee she made, topped with sliced boiled eggs, roasted cauliflower, dill and lentils. The next day I bought myself a whole cauliflower, inspired by how tasty the roasted cauliflower looked. When I woke up this morning, she texts me: I FORGOT TO GIVE U RSCIPE I text another friend to send a photo of the tahini she recommends (this one). I’m mostly not a list person unless I keep forgetting to buy wool wash for the sixth time. I do not meal prep, and usually rock up to the grocers with a sense of what I’m hungry for the next meal (or following days). In recent weeks I’ve been inspired by what my friends have been eating, especially when I get stuck for ideas on what to cook. A few weeks ago my friend told me how her recent go to meal has been chilli con carne. Days later when I found myself aimlessly meandering down the supermarket aisles with no specific craving and wondering what the hell I was going to make for dinner that night - I suddenly recalled: chilli con carne! I bought the ingredients and cooked a big pot of it that night. ~ I’ve been thinking a lot about the Moon lately, how the Moon relates to our habits, rituals, rhythms, routines, and what/how/where we are very practiced in instinctively. What we inherited before we could speak. Food is a primary connector, a main common denominator. What we eat, how we eat, how we come together to feed ourselves. Cooking shows aplenty, supper clubs all over the city, thousands of cookbooks published every year. The Moon is the planet that connects earth to the rest of the sky, her reflection a intermediary and messenger. The Moon is the original connector - of the people, for the people. The Moon is a primary indicator of what we are hungry for, what feeds our physical bodies but also about what feeds our souls. Feeding myself is not something that comes very easily to me, something I’ve felt embarassed about for much of my adult life. I look at wellness influencers online with beautiful homemade meals arranged on pretty ceramic plates and wonder when the domestic goddess genes left me on the curb. ~ Last week I invited someone for dinner and when they turned up I guiltily admitted I hadn’t even started cooking yet because I was frankly, exhausted. Less than two days later, I cook two pots of congee when my friend visits. When she arrives home the next day, she makes herself aforementioned bowl of congee, inspiring me in turn, closing a circle the Moon would be proud of. I remember that I don’t always know what I’ll be cooking but still I’m feeding myself and I’m feeding others. I too, am continually fed by others - in their homes, in restaurants and coffeeshops and the kebab shop. I wish I was a more versatile cook but my habits reveal themselves as messy, in sync with my rhythm and no one else’s, often undone when I’m seeking order and grace. It can be incredibly hard to break habits. Habits that keep us safe, comfortable, connected to the familiar past. How often we begin new routines then discard them three days later, our nostalgia for familiarity showing up stark in our daily habits. In another season we stack a new atomic habit, growing new limbs in the process of becoming the us waiting to be revealed. What does it feel like to be nostalgic for the us that’s arriving today? Not revamped as a new person, just growing longer nails, only to bite them off tomorrow and try again another day.
|
