What does it mean „To Feast“ in Basel ?
Your Auntie’s not sure when it ends. Only the emergence of her favorite bread – a non-pretzeled pretzel-shaped dough topped with caraway seeds – informs her it has returned … or is impending.
She knows, then, to be on alert for holidays. For the Thursday night discount meat sales. For the Monday morning practically-free chocolate bunny sales. She knows, only now, that Easter’s a big deal in Switzerland. It spans months. It involves many days off from work & school; many trips one must make to the grocery store lest one suffer the consequences of her first Easter holiday:
The Horror.
When once a wee lass, your Auntie thought ‚cooking‘ meant one poured the contents of two tinned cans together, heated, & stirred. Fruits were reserved for sad folks who didn’t have access to lemon drops. And, vegetables ? Well, all I knew were that peas made excellent projectiles once nestled into a spoon.
Then, anorexia hit. All I could think about was food. But I couldn’t eat it.
But, Darling, obsessions – once they take possession of your heart – will twist & morph you to their will.
Mine made me do crazy things. Like: experiment with herbs & spices. Mix two kinds of cheeses together … add milk … brown … lick, sigh … what will happen … ?
During your Auntie’s senior year of high school, the urge to feast came upon her so forcefully that she cooked all day & then invited one of her best friends from across the street to dine with her. Two 16 year old girls sat down to a meal that could have fed families. One an athlete. The other a fool. Together, we fed. And laughed at my folly.
From then, even after obviously overcoming anorexia, your Auntie said „Yes“ to every opportunity to learn to cook & invite loved ones to feast.
Because when you invite people to your table, you lay out your best. And you nourish only the people who accept. Who embrace you.
May the Heavens bless & bestow upon him his greatest joy – the friend who kindly suffered your Auntie’s first Swiss Easter meal.
Accustomed to 24-hour supermarkets & ‚Easter‘ just sometimes being a day in May, your Auntie invited an expat without family near to her home. Not knowing the stores would close for days – which days – which stores. I humiliatingly served him convenience store pasta & maybe eggs. I didn’t know to prepare for barren shelves.
I did not know how to celebrate – how to feast like a Swiss – on Easter.
For your Atheist Auntie, ‚Easter‘ happens in Switzerland from when her favorite bread arrives to when locals stop calling it ‚Spring‘. Approximately when the peonies are in full bloom.
From your Auntie’s favorite bread to your Auntie’s favorite flower.
One entire season of feasts. Arising from the murky gravy soup marching out of winter & emerging upon sun-soaked chargrilled sausages along the Rhine.
The only joke your Auntie remembers is an Easter joke. Q: „Why does the Easter Bunny hide eggs ?“ A: „He doesn’t want anyone to know he got laid by a chicken.“
Perhaps its a koan. I didn’t find it funny when I first heard it as a child & I still don’t. But I try to sort it out often.
Ignoring its xenophobia (because that’s just crass, Darling), it’s only now starting to make a bit of sense: Who you are, My Sweet Pink Sugared Peep, will rarely change. But how you respond to your world & the effects it has upon you will.
This weekend, that same friend who nobly suffered the indignities of processed, packaged pastas returned to visit. This time, we accepted a leisurely brunch under a generous Ash tree, then walked under dappled sunlight along the river’s edge.
A glorious feast. That fed our minds, our souls, & hearts.
And your Auntie didn’t even have to wash dishes.
XO
AS
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