I didn’t eat or think much about food during what would become the greatest tragedy of my life to date. Who could? Your whole life changes overnight and the “what’s for dinner” thought exercise doesn’t really resonate like it once did.
But then there was the soup.
I’d spent the whole day lying—hiding, really—under the covers, after learning that my house had been one of many taken by the L.A. wildfires. We had escaped to a friend’s house across town the night before, and one by one our village arrived to be with us. Nora Singley, my dear friend, and collaborator in work and all things cooking and eating, was one of the first to arrive. She came lugging tote bags filled with food. Food is her love language, and man, can that girl cook.
A few hours under the covers passed, and suddenly the deep earthy smell of rosemary started to waft up. Next came a wave of tomato–not fresh garden tomato, but a deeply caramelized and complex aroma, a tube of double concentrated tomato paste frying in olive oil. I knew she was up to something good.
I pulled myself out of bed and headed down to the kitchen, where I sat watching her cook from the kitchen table. Then came the tears. My house had burned down! But god, it smelled so good. I didn’t want to eat. If the soup tasted as good as it smelled, I might feel joy in a moment of total darkness? I had no idea what that would feel like, but I knew I didn’t want to feel it. I wasn’t ready to hold both of those things at once, because doing so meant I was beginning the process of moving on.
Nora dished up piping hot bowls of soup to a handful of sorrowful, hungry bellies. As she fed us, I sat with my head hanging low over mine. I couldn’t do it. On any other day, I’d have been the first one to dive in. On any other day, I would have been at the stove, cooking alongside her, singing the praises of the soup while serving it up to my friends with unbridled enthusiasm. But this wasn’t a normal day. This was January 7. A date that will remain burned into my mind forever.
I had to gather the courage to take that first bite. Had it not been cooked by Nora, I don’t know if I’d ever have gotten there. But the soup smelled too good. And god damn was that first bite worth it. Deep and brooding, rich and thick. The savoriest soup I’d ever tasted. Beluga lentils simmered into a kaleidoscope of sultry, salty flavors. Fennel seed, sundried tomatoes, and garlic, lifted by a kick of Calabrian chilies, and a cold dollop of labne swirled in at the end. I treasured every bit.
The last day we spent in our home was an insignificant one. Or, it was supposed to be insignificant. Nora and I were working on a couple of new recipes—one for broken meatball and rice porridge, another for burnt Basque quiche—in my butter yellow kitchen. It was a blustery, wind swept morning. The Santa Ana winds rolled through with full force. But the sun was peaking through. And we continued to cook. The text messages started in the late afternoon. The first one was from my brother. “Have you guys heard about the fire that’s happening at Eaton Canyon?” I responded that I hadn’t—up until then, I’d been in a work bubble. He responded immediately. “You guys might want to pack an evacuation bag.” Then the power went out.
Nora left swiftly after that, only to call me, frantically, from the road minutes later. She had pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road that intersects our street to see the ridge that was ablaze. Power lines were down and cell reception was spotty.When she finally got through to me, she screamed. “You have to get out of the house. Now.”
We scrambled to evacuate. Having never considered such a task, we were completely caught off guard. I strapped my son into his high chair while we ran around room to room, attempting to pack. The more I thought about what to take, the harder the task became. I grabbed our passports, our computers, my son’s birth certificate—the logistical, I figured. But the coping mechanism in my brain took over and convinced me that the likelihood of our house actually burning down was low. And so I packed for an overnight: sweatpants, my retainer, my toiletries for the morning. A ratty, insignificant sweater which would later become one of my most prized—and only—possessions.
I left behind my engagement ring. My husband’s late father’s mementos. Every note, card, letter, and sentimental object I had ever owned. It felt strange and arbitrary to choose one little thing among a lifetime of memories—to decide which memory was more important than the others. So taking nothing made more sense.
As we drove away, a vein of electric red ran down the whole hillside. Our canyon was ablaze.
I stayed up all night at my friend’s house, refreshing Google Maps, which showed the streets that had been hit. With each refresh, there were new homes burned. Throughout the night, in what seemed like a miracle, our street never turned red on the map. We had been spared.
But then I heard from my next-door neighbors: their home had burned to the ground.
My husband couldn’t live in the uncertainty. He hopped in the car and headed back to Altadena despite my pleading him not to. He had to see for himself. Downed power lines were everywhere. Small fires erupted right in front of his car as he drove up to our street. And then I got the phone call that would change my life forever.
“It’s all gone.” He sobbed.
“No, no, no.” I said back. “No, no, no.”
What does it mean for there to be nothing left? Where is my baby’s crib? Where are his clothes? Oh my god, my engagement ring. Where do I live? Where do I cook? Oh my god, my Dutch ovens. What comes next? Who am I now, that I have nothing?
And yet, while disaster and chaos ensues, human wants and needs do not wane. As was evidenced that morning, I am still intoxicated by the smell of good soup. That’s who I am, that’s who I’ll always be.
Devastation or not, a girl’s gotta eat. And so the question hovered over me: When I eat my first meal after this gargantuan moment of loss, do I deprive myself of the joy of good food? Five hours earlier, I wouldn’t have done that. Why restrain myself from pleasure when so much has been taken away? What a strange duality to hold all at once: Happy tastebuds, broken heart.
I have never been someone who is inclined to deprive myself of worldly pleasures: My whole life and work are built around finding joy through food. Eating delivers me little moments of that multiple times a day, and Nora’s soup will forever exist to remind me of just that. Joy prevails.
Joy is as big and as small as a bowl of lentil soup.