By Finch Strub
Edited by Alloe Mak

Saying that sharing food is an act of love might be the most trite thing I’ve ever written. Still, despite the complexity and letdown of many relationships, I can always look back with fondness on moments in each where we broke bread, either metaphorically or literally. There’s a line in The Princess and the Frog that says “the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” which is a sentiment that only feels like it becomes increasingly true as I get older. There is something unbelievably tender in a home-cooked meal, in handmade baked goods, or even in wandering the aisles of a grocery store with another. 

A friend recently pointed out that sharing and making food has become a recurring pattern in my relationships—one that extends beyond more than just a date night out at a restaurant. She noted that when I fall for someone, a bowl of soup or a shockingly expensive trip to Metro is usually what sends me over the edge. Even if I am no longer in contact with most of the people mentioned in this piece, I felt this pattern was worth immortalizing. For me, the only thing more evocative than food in a relationship is music. I’ve paired each of these memories with a song that encapsulates the relationship—an attempt to make things more tangible. While I cannot share the long-since-consumed food, I can make a playlist. 

S. “Iceblink Luck” by Cocteau Twins

I’m not sure how our mutual obsession for Marshmallow Peeps began, especially considering neither of us had ever eaten one before meeting each other. The strange, pastel-colored, rabbit-adjacent Easter candy was something niche to fixate on, and doodles of their oblong shape started to appear in our notebooks. There was something in their blank, mass-produced stare that we connected with, and our love for them only grew as our relationship progressed. It was high school and there wasn’t really much else to do. 

On the first Valentine’s Day I ever spent with someone, I was presented with a container of Peep-shaped cookies, flood-iced in varying shades of pink and yellow. Each one was hand-cut, golden around the edges, and frankly, delicious. Their pearlescent dragée eyes contained an existential horror that I still think about on occasion. In my old English classroom, we broke them into small pieces. I still feel a little bad for destroying their hard work. Each time February 14th rolls around and I see somebody’s mediocre boyfriend unable to think of a thoughtful gift, I remember the labour that went into those cookies. I picture struggling to get the shape right or to make the icing perfectly smooth. Even though the cookies were gone before the end of the day, the gesture remains undeniably sweet. 

F. “Summertime” by My Chemical Romance

Though I dislike the act of cooking for myself, I love watching other people do it. Food Network was always on in my house when I was growing up and I think I can still recite the rules to “Beat Bobby Flay” verbatim. During the height of the pandemic, I spent a disgusting amount of time on Facetime with this person. Whenever he was tasked with making dinner for his family, I would be on the other line keeping a conversation with his mom. I watched him julienne carrots, dice onions, and occasionally fuck up a recipe, always with a dish towel over his right shoulder like someone on TV. It was hypnotic—partially because of the rhythm, but mostly because we were in love. In this world, there’s one food I can’t resist, and that’s mac and cheese. Boxed or baked, I don’t care. Even bad mac and cheese is still mac and cheese. After several nights of me complaining about craving that very food, he promised to make me some. Virtually, I stared as he made the roux and created the sauce from scratch. My mouth watered as the noodles cooked. By the time the thermos of pasta was dropped off at my door, I was some version of deranged. Looking back now, it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had. But the fact that he made it was special. These days, I still drape a dish towel over my shoulder when I cook and wish for that thermos when I’m starving late at night.

X. “Didn’t Cha Know” by Erykah Badu

I am nothing if not a canned soup aficionado. Between work, school, and too many extracurriculars for one person to have, eating proper meals tends to fall by the wayside. After a long day of arguing about often mediocre books, I like to be in and out of the kitchen as quickly as possible. That being said, homemade soup can heal most wounds (this is not sound medical advice). While I pride myself on not turning into a frail Victorian child the moment I get a minor cold, my overloaded schedule means that when I get sick, I am often completely incapacitated despite my best efforts to keep going. During one of these times, I was lamenting to this person that I didn’t have the energy to cook. They didn’t live far, but my place wasn’t exactly on the way. As much as I told them that I would eventually get out of bed and eat, 20 minutes later, there was a knock at my door. They had traded an egg in order to get a friend of mine to sign them in and stood cradling a bowl of some of the most excellent soup I’d ever had. The gesture was sweetened by a forehead kiss and a sweet note taped to the container. Though they rushed off to class shortly after this interaction, I felt very cared for at that moment. Typically, I am the default caretaker when someone close to me falls ill. I have taken people to the hospital, stayed up until the early morning, and even played “Hero” by Mariah Carey on my phone while someone’s fever broke. It was nice to be looked after for a change. The only regret I have is that I didn’t get the recipe for that soup. 

J. “The Secret Goldfish” by Pencey Prep

Every Tuesday around 3:15, we make the perilous ten-minute journey to the grocery store. Apparently, one of my most attractive qualities is that I’m an efficient shopper, even with someone trailing me and making loving fun of my choice of produce or cereal. Apparently, Krave is universally loved. When we check out, I make sure to leave something out of my backpack so she’ll have something to carry home. Even if it’s just a bag of bagels or paper towels, she likes to feel like she contributed more to the trip than just commentary or conversation. This excursion is important because it enables me to feed her. Normally, I hate cooking for people because ruining it means that I’ve let down more than just myself. However, I will always offer her something to eat. While my grilled cheese-making technique and preference have been criticized (apparently I like them too “raw”), I like to think that she appreciates the effort. For whatever reason, I am desperate to show my affection through food. Even something simple like poorly cut apple slices in bed is an attempt at conveying my feelings. Despite not cooking a four-course meal or even a dish with more than three steps, I hope that it gets the point across. Maybe someday I’ll make her something that makes its way into a piece like this.