Writing About Food

Our writing workshop met this morning and I suggested we do a writing exercise before getting on with our critiquing. I chose an exercise from one of my favourite and well-used books, Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. She recommends a short session (we did five minutes) of brainstorm/freeflow writing followed by a further session to edit some or all of the material produced and then to share the pieces out loud. 

I had chosen food for our writing exercise, anything to do with food. I guessed that each of us would produce something totally different and I was right. We heard about the bulk cooking of pizzas for a family gathering and the way that food can touch the memory like no other sensation can. We were taken into a French kitchen with its rich atmosphere and pungent aromas. We mused at the way in which a trip to the market to buy cherries turned into memories of an aunt and her hat-purchasing fetish and we had a mouthwatering account of all the foods that we have, over the years, brought along to our monthly lunch gatherings. (Yes, we are ladies who lunch as well as ladies who write!)

Although most of us are fiction writers, every piece of writing was based on true events, most of them long-ago memories. This was also true of the piece I'd written, except it isn't a long ago memory. It happened yesterday. I wrote it in short poetry-style lines. It's not meant to read as a poem. It was just the way it fell from my pen:

I love cheese,

creamy yellow cheese, 

crunchy mature cheese, 

soft runny French cheese, 

the kind that stinks out your fridge,

cheese wrapped in nettle leaves,

even blue-veined cheese,

but yesterday I wanted cheese scones for lunch.

We called at the bakers.

They only had cheese straws.

We popped into the deli

But baclava doesn't do it for me.

We had soup for lunch instead

and I disappeared off to write,

trying to ignore the noises from the kitchen.

Clunk, whir, click.

Teatime.

He brought me a steaming mug of tea 

and a plate of tiny, round,

perfectly formed,

cheese scones.

They dissolved on my tongue.

From a man of few words 

They spoke a million.

Only one left. Proof of the pudding...

Spring: A new beginning or more of the same?

Yesterday was the Vernal Equinox. We’re halfway between the shortest, darkest day and the longest, lightest one. We can say with confidence that it’s Spring, but is Spring a new beginning? It might be the time when flowers start to open but those buds have been growing for months. So where does our yearly cycle really begin? I’ve never understood why January 1st should be a new beginning. The Winter Solstice would be more logical, or even our birthday. If it comes to it, do we have a natural yearly cycle or are our bodies governed by a monthly cycle, or a daily one... or should we be ‘living in the moment’?

These were questions that I threw at yesterday’s local Lapidus group. We had gathered in Leicester and, although I was leading the session, I still had the day put aside as well-earned ‘me-time’. I had spent most of last week with Rod at the specialist unit of London’s Royal Free Hospital. They told us that his chemotherapy treatment is to be extended for another two months. I was ready for my ‘me-time’.

The group agreed that they were influenced by a yearly cycle but none of the ones I had listed out. It was the academic year, with the end of the long summer holiday marking a new beginning in many people’s lives. We talked about seasons having smells and tastes. Smells are so evocative. They can take us back to long-ago events from similar times of the year but these memories are often negative. Would it not be better to live in the moment? By all means plan and prepare for future events but why do many of us mourn for the past, worry for the future and ruin the present? (ok, ok, so I'm talking about myself here!)

At this point I introduced out first writing exercise. We chose one moment from that morning before we met and we followed a simple format of listing the senses. I love these group writing sessions. They always produce as many ideas as there are people in the group. Our chosen moments ranged from a precious early morning cup of tea to an uninhibited dance in a rain-drenched garden.

The poem The Art of Blessing the Day by Marge Piercy inspired us to write our own words of appreciation for the small things in life. We blessed just about everything from the smooth satin lining of a much-loved jacket to a nice cup of tea... I could take a hint. We stopped for tea, biscuits, news, gossip and general chatter. My me-time had once again turned into me/we/tea time. I created this phenomenon in an earlier post and firmly believe that we all need it every now and then.

Before we rushed back to the real world I read a piece from the Strictly Writing Blog. Guest blogger, Tara L. Masih, talked of her father’s advice to always put positive, beautiful images into our minds because images never leave us. Once our vision processes a scene or picture, it is stored in our subconscious forever. Tara likened our minds to one big filing drawer that stretches to infinity. This is why she tries to avoid graphic violence on TV and film, likes to garden, go to art museums, and explore different places and cultures.

As I was reading, the group were nodding in agreement. We don’t want to waste space in our mental filing cabinets on negative thoughts and so we gathered up some positive thoughts to take away with us, like the feeling you get when you’re lost in a good book, or when you see an amazing sunset. For me it was my day with the local Lapidus group which has now been filed safely away in my mental filing cabinet under the letter p for positive.