By Keertan Somasundaram
Edited by Ellena Lu and Liam Mason
Talking is hard.
We try to wrap our heads around our varicoloured emotions to understand and communicate them with a mere 26 letters. Years and years and years of humans studying linguistics haven’t helped the poorest soul in telling the other how they really feel.
Barry Jenkin’s Moonlight, one of my favourite films, embodies this to a tee. It takes this realization and personifies it in a devastating triptych of virtuous love. There’s a beautiful portrayal of miscommunication layered throughout the different parts of the film, but there’s a vehicle it uses to further character relationships in a subtle way that has nothing to do with speech. It uses food. In an interview discussing the film’s depiction of the relationship between food and love, Jenkins said this;
Characters stumble over their words, hold onto secrets for decades, and rarely fully understand each other. However, every time they speak over a meal or simply cook for each other, they allow the unspoken to become crystal clear. A new understanding is formed—you can’t mistranslate a meal.
There are three things I’ve always wished I could do—I wish I could draw, I wish I could play the piano, and last but definitely not least, I wish I could cook. Since I can’t, I instead decided I’d review some meals that’ve held an incredibly important place in the corners and crevices of my being.
Talking is hard. Writing is a pain in the ass. Cooking is impossible.
But eating is easy.
Junior Chicken
My senior year of high school garnered me a wondrous 103 absences.
For the longest time, a Junior Chicken was around a dollar and fifty cents.
There are countless heartbreaking examples of our society suffering under the iron clasp of capitalism—the Junior Chicken being the latest victim. I remember the day clearly—I was skipping calculus and you had a spare, we drove to the McDonald’s next to our school and the sandwich we knew so well was now almost three whole dollars. We looked at each other with imminent shock in our eyes—neither of us could afford to go to McDonald’s so often if this kept happening.
I skipped too much, making this aggressive inflation a serious problem for my ever-dwindling bank account. My reasons for skipping so frequently were simple; I didn’t like our high school, I don’t think it liked me, and I really, really liked spending time with you. We’d drive around listening to Steve Lacy, visiting surprisingly huge lakes and shittily maintained parks, or sneaking into abandoned skate parks. Most days I’d come to school only because I knew that during lunch we’d leave. I didn’t care enough about my third-period calculus class to go anyway.
We’d go to the McDonald’s. I fell into the lake trying to climb the tree. We’d go to the McDonald’s. You found a tick on your neck after you laid over a dandelion patch. We’d go to the McDonald’s. Again, and again, and again.
It would’ve been easier for my finances if it got old, but it never did. I’d talk about how I wished my chemistry teacher got struck by lightning, you’d talk about how wrong your ex did you, and we’d rant about how each time we went to the McDonald’s, the Junior Chicken just kept getting smaller and smaller. Sometimes our friends would join us, which was a joy in its own regard, but in my somewhat juvenile mindset I couldn’t help but think we both enjoyed the solitary moments in each other’s company more than when they were here with us.
We don’t have that McDonald’s anymore. The Junior Chicken is now four dollars. I go to this university, and you go to that one. I’ve met new people I love, and so have you. We’ll never be the same people that we were when we’d skip on those bright spring days leading into the harsh summer. It’s safe to say that we’ve both grown to some extent. But I’m forever grateful that before I grew, I had you.
You, the Junior Chicken, your trash-filled car, Steve Lacy, and that McDonald’s will always be there in a distant corner of my memory. I believe that human beings strive their hardest to be understood so as not to be haunted by their own loneliness. In that distant corner of my memory, I’ll always remember what it’s like to not be alone. I swear that I’ll pay you back for all the times you covered my lunch once I’m no longer incredibly broke, but for now, I hope this pays some dues.
Box of Fries
There’s an inconspicuous pub right outside of my university’s campus, huddled in between a dark rodent-filled alleyway and a barbershop doubling as a dispensary. Walk in, turn right, and head up the narrow staircase to enter a cozy abode, featuring pool tables, an old-timey jukebox, even older couches, and creaky wooden chairs.
I don’t remember why I decided to bring you here the first time—I think it was just a coincidence and the place looked cool from the outside. I wanted to talk with you because I didn’t think I liked you very much from the get-go and I wanted to try and change that initial impression. They didn’t ID here but we didn’t come here to drink anyways. Hell, we only got fries because you were paranoid that they were gonna kick us out if we didn’t order something. They were stale, flavourless, and the ones at the bottom had a bite to them akin to chomping into a long-expired Cheeto. I’d come into this talk with you expecting a quick ending—though these fries we’d ordered an hour in were a sign that I was dead wrong.
We talked about who we were and who we wanted to be. Why did we have so much in common? We talked about our families. Fuck. We talked about my friend who thought you were cute. I completely misjudged you. We stayed in the pub that night for at least 4 hours before we decided to take our leave. There’s something to be said about the quality of those fries when we’d left most of them untouched.
When I came back to my room, I remember my roommates asking me why I looked so giddy. It wasn’t the fries, that’s for sure. The last time I remember clicking with someone like this was in elementary school. It’d been so long since I had a talk with someone new that was this open, for lack of a better word. We spoke to each other like we grew up together, like we knew each other’s relatives, like this was simply a routine meeting of two old friends—when realistically I had met you less than a few weeks ago.
Some months passed. Some things happened.
After everything, we had stopped talking to each other. It was a few long weeks before that’d change. We silently went up to the now-crowded pub and sat down. I didn’t know what to say. You looked at me like you didn’t know either. I tried to rack my thoughts when you picked up the menu and said we should order something in case they kick us out. You picked the fries, and I knew exactly how to start.
I spoke. You listened.
I cried. You cried.
We sat at this table for about the same duration as the first time. We still barely touched the fries. The talk we had didn’t feel any different either. There’s not a lot I can say other than to state the fact that I’m so lucky to have been able to meet you. You showed me that it could be easy to love. How uniquely similar we were, a paradox in its own sense. Maybe that’s why it’s better how things ended up. We both know now it’s impossible to go back to the time we first met in the pub and how hard it is for the both of us to continue what we have now. But I think it says a lot that at the very least, we’re trying.
What we have is important enough to try. And if it gets too hard for either of us, I’m sure we wouldn’t be surprised if the other disappears and becomes a fond memory. It’d probably be easier for us both. No matter what happens, just know that I could never grow hatred for you. Whenever someone asks about you, only tender things will materialize from me.
We could go not talking at all, for an eternity even, and this would remain true.
But, if you ever want to, ask me to get the fries at the pub with you again. I’ll always say yes. Would you?
Turkey Schiacciata
Making a sandwich is simple. Making a good sandwich is a fine art. The first (and only) time I went to the lovely and quaint St. Lawrence Market was with you. Make your way to the left-most corner of the market, past the live seafood and fresh pasta, and between a store specializing in cheese and another selling oysters, you’ll come face to face with a sizeable deli. We both ended up getting the same thing – a massive sandwich constructed with fresh Schiacciata, turkey they sliced in front of us, arugula, Swiss cheese, and a few other things you’d expect to find on a sandwich of this nature. After an arduous walk to find a place to sit, we finally landed on those creaky high chairs and started to eat.
Do you remember that Saturday at all? You, who are always busy, always have something going on, and always seem to know everything. We visited the art gallery and you showed me the painting you made that was too big to hang anywhere, the same one I said I would buy the day I became a millionaire. We visited the market and you walked me around stores you came to as a kid, and you brought me to this bakery you said you loved. We walked around in increasingly repetitive loops before we decided on the deli for lunch. I wonder if you remember the conversation we had eating our sandwiches. There was an old couple in front of us with almost matching jackets and we guessed what they were talking about. We wondered where their kids were. We wondered where they were from. I could have sat on those creaky chairs, eating those sandwiches, and talking about that couple with you for a lifetime.
We both didn’t finish our sandwiches that day, electing to save the rest for later. When we parted ways, my first thought was when we would see each other again. I felt selfish to some extent—am I asking too much? I valued you much more than I had myself—I was taking up too much of your precious time. Do you remember how you felt then? The evening sun began to be eclipsed by the tall building adjacent to mine, and I pulled the uneaten half out of the fridge. My roommates came home one at a time right after each other, as if they’d rehearsed it, and sat down on the couch next to the table I situated, just thinking.
I haven’t known you long, but you’ve never been stationary. You’ve always been on the move, creating something, going somewhere, or making something out of yourself. As I finished that sandwich surrounded by the new people I love, I realized that my love for you was unique.
You’re never stationary anywhere other than my thoughts. That’s just in your nature. But in what I write or create, you’ll be there. In how I present myself, meet new people, or grow, you’ll be there. In who I want to love, you’ll be there. We could never meet each other again and yet I’m certain out of any of the people I’ve met in my life, the reflection of my blood pooled on the floor would be a pale mirror of you.
I finished the sandwich. The freshly baked bread combined with the now cold turkey and pesto tasted like something I could make at home—although probably never as good. I threw the wrapper in the overflowing garbage can and hopped on that uncomfortable couch to join some random conversation I can’t remember. But I know I’ll remember that sandwich. I’ll remember that Saturday. I’ll remember those four months. I’ll always remember you.
Do you remember?
A (very) Full Portuguese Lunch
In the west end of Toronto is a wonderful family-run Portuguese restaurant that has offered some of the best food that I’ve ever eaten in my nineteen years of living. Take Line 2 down to Runnymede station, hop over to the florist’s across the street to pick up a small bouquet to make a good impression, and take a short bus ride down to this fine establishment. I’ve only been twice, both times with all of you. Both times, I’ve left extremely fulfilled, both emotionally and physically.
Since university started, I’ve rarely visited home. My parents called, and sometimes I didn’t pick up. I don’t know why. I’d elect to stay in my dorm. I was meeting new people here at an alarming rate, most of whom I grew to love. My home wasn’t lacking in it, but sometimes it just felt empty. I can’t remember the last time we sat down and had a meal together. As the school year went on, I got closer and closer to the people that I had met, each one with their own quirks, eccentricities, and character. I also ended up getting closer to all of you. We’d spend so much time together, getting high, exploring the city, spending late nights and early mornings together, and the food. The food was special. We’d go out at four in the morning to get something to eat—usually fried with old overused oil or covered with grease. I said the food was special, but that’s less so because of the quality and more so because I was with you guys.
My extended absence from home also meant that I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal anytime recently, so when you asked all of us to come visit her family’s restaurant, I jumped at the opportunity. You all were in a similar boat to me, and this outing turned into one that we’d hype up for ourselves weeks prior. I don’t know why I was so nervous when we visited the restaurant that first time. I wanted to make a good impression on good people—how could they not be good if they were feeding us for free?
That morning, my dad called me. I didn’t answer. We’d collectively decided to starve ourselves prior to visiting the restaurant to make sure we could eat our full. As we greeted your mother we gave her the bouquet we got, and she returned a hearty hug to all of us. You introduced us to your other family who came up and said their greetings before we got bombarded with food. The fries were perfectly golden and gleaming in the light, the chicken smelled like what would prompt a cartoon character to float toward a windowsill, and the rice bounced on the table like a fluffy pillow. I was apprehensive to get started but I was starving, so I filled my plate with some chicken and rice. I took a bite.
I took another.
And a few more.
And I was on the verge of tears.
How long had it been since I ate food like this? How long had it been since I picked up those calls?
I wrote about what you two had before but I never thought that I’d be able to experience that type of love, let alone in a platter of barbequed chicken, buttered rice, and passionfruit mousse. The gluttony we exhibited that day must’ve made Satan himself proud—and I can’t say that I’d want to experience it with anyone else. I’ve known you all for a little over half a year, but I wouldn’t hesitate to call any of you anything short of family. The food we ate was familial, the love that was put into it made it like that, but I think part of the fact it felt that way was because I shared it with you all.
Your mother kept asking if we wanted more and we felt awfully guilty since the meal was on the house, so as we left we slid a solitary twenty dollar bill under our finished plate as a token of our boundless appreciation. In my mind that day, I promised myself that I’d never forget the gratitude shown to me both times I visited. The meal I had taught me boundless love. The meal I shared taught me the importance of family.
Maybe I should call.