Some time in the middle of a seemingly never-ending Binghamton winter, I found myself sitting at a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant with two of my best friends. We chowed down garlic knots at a pace only starving, broke college kids can and spoke of everything, from trivial matters to the meaning of our existence. The range of table talk made sense — one friend with whom I sat is, to this day, incredibly successful at making me belly laugh. She and I can talk matter-of-factly, but our relationship is mostly filled with fun, lighthearted communication. The other friend, my freshman year roommate, is someone I can and will always confide in. She, though I think sometimes she does not know it, has the ability to share subtle bits of wisdom and life experience that have a way of grounding me like little else does.
I remember, on this night, looking at these two friends who were polar opposites in every sense of the definition and thinking how damn lucky I was to love and be loved by them both. Later, in reflecting on the impact these little moments had on me, I came to realize a crucial fact about relationships — they flourish when you don’t expect everything from everyone. To ask this would be akin to expecting cumin to adequately substitute for red pepper flakes in the vodka-sauce-smothered dishes we devoured that night. When used appropriately, these spices can beautifully enhance their respective plates. When asked to substitute for one another, though, they would undoubtedly fall short — not as a result of inadequacy, but because they are being asked to be something they are not.
To put this idea in the context of that night out with friends, the perfect remedy for a not-so-good day was a balance of people who offered both a sense of overwhelming peace and unhinged laughter. Together, the three of us created something more beautiful than any of us could have alone, much like how the combination of cinnamon and sugar achieves a flavor that transcends the sum of its parts.
It is likely due to a good amount of luck that I have been blessed with such good people in my life, but I believe a big contributor also comes from my desire to diversify my circle. While pinpointing the exact origin of this longing is challenging, I suspect it relates to my mother’s cooking philosophy. As a child, I spent hours with her in the kitchen, where she always aimed to incorporate a variety of cuisines into her weekly meal plans. A typical week in our house might include fajitas, lasagna, teriyaki salmon, pierogies and chicken gyros. While the specific meals varied, the diversity remained consistent. We rarely found ourselves eating two meals from the same cuisine in a single week.
These experiences allowed me to notice that if an American-born mother sought to connect with different cultures, perhaps somewhere else in the world, through her meals, another mother was doing the same. This idea tied them together — both women, through their wish to bring comfort to their families, dismantled geographical barriers and stereotypes from within their own homes. Neither woman cooked in isolation, even if she stood alone in her kitchen. The truth was, any recipe they followed was a testament to the generations of cooks that stood before them.
Taking my mother’s advice, I have tried to embrace this philosophy in my friendships. She taught me, perhaps unintentionally, that to minimize the amount of perspectives and personalities around you is to miss out on the richness and beauty of the human experience. It is largely because of my mom’s passion for cooking, therefore, that I have found myself with a circle of friends with whom, on the surface, it would appear I have little in common. Further, it is because of her I recognize the privilege that exists in moments over shared meals. To have time to consider food as a means of peace and unity reflects a life of abundance, and extending this privilege to as many people as possible would be to bridge cultural, class, religious and racial gaps that, right now, seem insurmountable.
This series will span several months — each article a contribution to the idea that food is and should be seen as a metaphor for the way we view the world. Shared culinary experiences, family dinners, school lunches, backyard gardens, sustainable farming and several other ideas will be discussed in the coming weeks. I urge you, as a reader, to consider what these food-centered practices can teach us about ourselves, those around us and the world as a whole.
Akira Kopec is a junior majoring in integrative neuroscience.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.