Ribollita
On paying attention & Sunday lunch vol. 1
Last weekend, I came down with the stomach flu, a flashing red stop sign forcing me to pause. For a few days, I couldn’t eat without feeling queasy, and when I finally could, the smell and taste of everything was magnified. I made myself a bowl of miso soup and with each sip the unmistakable flavours of caramel and coffee hit my palate. I had a bite of an inoffensive digestive biscuit and was overwhelmed by the intensity of the malty whole grain wheat. I wish that it hadn’t taken a stomach flu for me to notice these things, but the experience has been a good reminder.
If I’m being honest, I’m not always as present as I’d like to be. Pulled in a half dozen directions, I often feel like a waiter carrying a toppling tray of glassware across a slick dining-room floor. And though I know my mind is often somewhere other than here and now, a bleak part of me tends to believe that this distractedness is, sadly, the norm. Yet I’m convinced that most things improve when we choose to notice them. Attention is a gift, one we rarely give ourselves, but under its beam, our ordinary experiences become vivid in a way that may otherwise escape us altogether. To others, our presence is a perceptible act of kindness and generosity.
In the context of food, being attentive with each bite we take, noticing how it looks, smells, tastes, or feels on our tongue, can be the difference between quickly forgotten calories and a moment that brings us lasting joy. Eating must be the single most intimate thing we do for ourselves. Each bite of food enters and becomes us, yet we often let these moments slip past, lost in the current.
The ideal meal, then, must be one for which we are mindfully aware of both the food before us and the company with whom we share it. I’ll be the first to admit that many of my own bites are rushed and absentminded, but over the past few months, having friends over for a long lunch on weekends has been a saving grace. It doesn’t happen every week, but these unhurried afternoons have been grounding. We are present, unrushed, and happy to be together and to share a meal in each other’s company. Whether someone needs advice or reassurance, or we are simply catching each other up on our lives, these days open up meaningful conversation. Lingering after the meal over a cup of tea, feeling full in more ways than one, might just be the closest thing to a panacea I know.
Lately, as the cold settles in, I crave warmth and soup feels right. This time it’s ribollita, a Tuscan soup made with plenty of vegetables cooked down into a deeply caramelized soffritto, followed by white beans, tomatoes, a generous amount of kale left to wilt, and crusty bread, which breaks down and thickens the flavourful broth. I make the soup with the same degree of attention as I hope to enjoy it, dicing the vegetables into tiny, confetti-like cubes, stirring carefully with a wooden spoon, and allowing the flavours time to deepen as the soup simmers. It’s a process that grounds me and the result is richly delicious soup that is a very good argument for paying attention at all.
