If I Were An Object, I’d Want To Be A Cast Iron Pot…
Recently I was having a chat with a colleague and friend about the feeling you get when you walk into a space. He said, ‘I love it when I go into a person’s house and maybe stuff around it is falling apart, but they’ve invested in some quality cast iron pots and pans. Clearly they’ve made a judgement call- the pots and pans win over house repairs.’ In that moment, I looked around my kitchen, at the peeling paint on the 400+ year old wall, then glanced at my stove with my cast iron pots and said- ‘THAT’S ME!’
I’m from a family of ‘hosters’- my father’s family is Sicilian, and my mother’s family is from The South in the States, North Carolina to be exact. In many ways, these two cultures seem disparate, but in one mega way, they are exactly the same. Both revolve hugely around family and food- specifically around big family meals and the desire to feed people.
My mother’s mother was THE quintessential grandmother, out of a movie. She was warm, caring, loved her grandchildren fiercely, unconditionally. My friends knew that if Gaga was around, there’d be one of her famous pound cakes, or a pie, or fried chicken and sausage gravy. She literally wouldn’t let you leave until you’d eaten something, and taken something away for later. She would cook up big family dinners on Sundays and the family would gather. She’d push seconds, sometimes thirds on family members and friends who always loved a place at the table. It was one of her love languages. She’d invite people over for a meal, and they’d leave feeling like their cups had been filled- both physically and more importantly metaphorically. She was a champion at this.
And now, my children speak the same way about their grandmother, my mom. Gigi, makes the best chicken noodle soup and can duplicate her mother’s poundcake. My mother always makes an extra cake for my kid and sends it in a Tupperware on the airplane with us so we have some when we’re back in the UK. Needless to say, it never lasts very long once we’re home.
My paternal grandmother, Leona- was a force. Wife of a chef/restaurant owner, she was one of the strongest, sassiest, independent women I’ve ever known. The last time I was at a meal with my aunt, now the matriarch of my Italian family, she reminisced about how most nights, some random friend or neighbour would be at their house eating dinner with the family. That she thought this was just normal to always have ‘extras’ at the table. Like my maternal grandmother, I can’t remember a time where I’d be able to leave Leona’s house without leftovers, which were often fought over once they were in our own fridge at home. When my grandmother taught me how to make the family sauce and meatballs, I learned her recipe that made 90 meatballs at a time. What was the point of making less? Someone always ate it. Italian cookies- that recipe calls for 4 POUNDS (that’s 1.8 kilos) of sugar and 30 eggs. Needless to say, my Sicilians cooked for an army always, and inevitably the army always came, elbowing over leftovers.
For me, the feeling of sitting around a table sharing delicious food, having conversation, being together, is my lifeline. It’s literally built into my DNA. It’s my love language. Once in a blog, Gemma wrote that ‘Caroline’s kitchen is the heart of her home and a hive of activity’. While she was just describing what was going on that day in my kitchen, I took it as the best compliment I’ve ever received. Ever. THIS is how I want to be known.
All of the kids in our village know where the snack drawer is in my house, and they know they are all welcome to raid it at any time. People who know us, know- our house is always open, and there’s always a seat at the table. (Though be forewarned I’ll most likely be in my ma chic gear aka leggings and a hoodie and the house will most likely be full of chaos & clutter where my feral little people have staged their latest coup.)
Like my grandmothers and my mother, I too want my home to be a place where people feel fed. Welcomed, safe, knowing there will always be a seat at the table for them. There will always be someone there to laugh with, or listen. The feeling isn’t tangible, but it’s palpable. THIS is what I want Breaker to feel like. A place where you can come as you are, where your cup will be refilled. A place where you know you ALWAYS have a seat. This is at the core of who we are.
