Quilts, Mosaics, Collages

A Love Letter to Everyone I've Ever Called Friend

I am surrounded by romance in a way that has turned me into a curmudgeon. With leaf peeping season abound, couples’ vacations are at an all time high. The young couples don’t make me envious, but rather annoyed (I don’t want your boyfriend). On my walk the other day, a couple around my age holding hands nearly clotheslined me. I walk across the Hudson every evening, and the pedestrian path is already a little narrow. Add in the fact that orb-weaver spiders cover the railings to catch dinner in the breeze. Rather than let go, this couple smushed to one side, bumping me into the railing like we were in high school. When I finished my lap of the bridge, I saw them at a picnic bench, kissing in that loud, nasty way. 

The older couples, on the other hand, I can’t help but watch them closely. We get a lot of them at my job, holding hands and making each other laugh on their retirement. Seeing people who have loved each other for so long, seen each other through so many different versions, and known each other so well, makes me nosy. I see them helping each other down the stairs, or staring out at the mountains together with wistful smiles. 

Maybe I just assume they still love each other, but the quips they make about each other say to me that, in an old people way, they do. I think of one couple particularly back in the summer. The wife was a big name in my field of work, which I only learned when the husband loudly announced the prestige of her resumé. She giggled underneath her sunhat as he went on about her. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “She’s too humble, don’t you agree?” He repeated this show with all of my coworkers, cheerleading even after she’d already concluded an incredible career.

I find myself envious of these old people in a strange way. Although I have not met Old Elizabeth yet and the people she holds in her life, I often imagine the spinster-y worst. Andrew Garfield’s viral episode of the New York Times podcast Modern Love talks about these kind of longings in life, and I long to be old with a partner. I want to see the world with someone else, and be a cheerleader for them and all the different versions of themselves, past and future. I want to see someone in full, and be seen in turn.

But really, is this romantic love the end all be all? What if these things I long for are already present in my life? Perhaps I have fallen victim to the romantic deluge in our pop culture, brainwashed into thinking there isn’t already so much love around me. I am already growing older alongside my sister and my cousins, who are more like siblings anyway. I have always been a cheerleader–I’m naturally quite loud. When my best friend Mila was on the news in high school for a dress she made, I plastered her face everywhere I could reach.     

I don’t have the answers for the differentiating line between romantic and platonic relationships, or why we crave romantic love to the point of selling our other relationships short. One day, maybe I’ll have the answers, but in the meantime, I’ve found myself pouring myself into my friendships. I can’t stop myself from cooking and baking for my roommates, an earnest grandmother in the making. 

“Are you going to be home tonight?” I say when we get home from work, trying to be coy. “Because I couldn’t possibly finish this all by myself…” A vegetarian? No problem, I’ll use Impossible meat, just for you. Did everyone get a cookie before I wrap them up? Well, they’ll be here on the counter if anybody wants more. There is always more. I have always adored making for others. As a kid, playing restaurant was a staple when I stayed with my grandparents, even when the soup course wasn’t much more than salted water choked with cumin. 

Once I actually learned how to cook, feeding others became my mainstay. Birthday dinners are the best gift I can give, such as a butter-basted steak just because I overheard when you said you wanted one two weeks ago. I say ‘I love you’ in my caesar dressing recipe. Against my better feminist Latina judgment, I especially love fixing plates for people. Hell, when I offer a spoonful of what I’m cooking, I agonize over making sure they get the perfect mouthful with all the balanced components. 

 There is something deeply satisfying about making people happy in this most basic way. It makes sense for who I am and who my parents raised. They told me that my lot in life is to take care of others. As an eldest daughter, this comes with a certain heaviness. For a long time I rejected this definition of me, thinking people who care too much for others have to be completely self-sufficient. They are invincible, so they can keep giving. It seemed exhausting to me to imagine this kind of world.

But that’s simply not how we interact with others, especially the people we love. Feeding others has revealed that we are constantly in symbiosis with the people around us, and there are many ways to fill your cup if you take the time to look. 

Usually my guests go above and beyond in terms of reciprocation. I cook, then try to wash dishes. My favorite kind of guests rush in, pushing me out of the kitchen. My good friend Bobby used to do this over the most haphazard dinners and lazy lunches. He would even wash my dishes from my previous meals as a thank you. Sometimes, just the reactions of others as they eat my food is enough. Even if they have healthy criticisms (like my father’s penchant for heavy salt), I am emotionally fed by the response. Why temper this joy with the blur of transactional garbage? Why ruin a good thing by thinking so hard on what I get out of all of it? 

Unfortunately, I cannot feed all of my friends in this new chapter of our lives. While my family is squarely in the Windy City, my friends are scattered everywhere. Gone are the days of hopping the bus or walking the two blocks over in our college town. Some are an Amtrak ride away, while others are as far as the Rocky Mountains and the Iberian Peninsula. Naturally, I get sad about the distance. However, I find myself more often than not grateful for all the stories I’m privy to from all these corners of the world.  

We have become crafty in terms of the vessels for these stories. I collect postcards in all the museums I visit on the east coast just to fling them as far as they’ll reach via USPS. Soon I’ll graduate to stationary and pen pal status. I check the mail daily like a little kid, just hoping something will materialize. I try to call as much as I can, or at the very least send audio messages. I badger my friends who aren’t consistent with text, knowing when I get a response it will be like no time passed. There is a certain balm in receiving or sending a message that reads, “Oh, how I’ve missed your voice!”  

This Substack actually brought me and one of my best friends closer again. I met Gillian Koptik in early 2016 at our auditions for art school. I had noticed her in the auditorium-turned-holding room with her father, tall like a cedar, clutching a very professional looking portfolio. Sitting side by side on the stairs outside of the interview room, I told her I liked her maroon Doc Martens. Months later on my first day of high school orientation, when I saw her again, I was not afraid–I had a friend. 

me and gill circa mid 2022

She’s heard every cringe poem I brought to workshop, and seen my hair in every shade of the rainbow. I was always the first person to go through her give away pile when she went through her closet, and I still wear her Target dresses. I’m wearing one of them as I write this. We have cried with each other in bathroom stalls and childhood bedrooms. We used to get ready together for homecoming dances, slamming pizza and doing eyebrows. Now we get ready for bar dates and Bloody Marys. She’s a ride or die, and I am lucky to know her. 

We experienced a little distance in college, as I stayed near Chicago while she tried her hand in Missouri. In spite of our busy lives at school (we’re both obnoxious extroverts), we connected on school breaks for drinks or breakfast. Because Gill knows my writing so intimately, I asked her if she would be an editor of this Substack. She agreed, always generous, always excited. We’re all a little bit of the people we love. It seems that our Substacks are as well.

It’s been strange keeping friends from all phases of my life in the post-grad world. I have some friends I’ve known since my first day of pre-k, while others I just met this past June here in the Catskills. Even if all of my people aren’t accessible in the ways they used to be, they are still the ones I think of often. I will keep showing up for them even if we are apart. When we come back together again, we’ll break bread and be merry.

Thank you, always, for stopping by.

Until next time,

EAV

Recipe Recommendation Celebration

A few weeks ago, my neighbor invited my roommates and I over for lunch. My neighbor’s husband had made an incredible spread, including a creamy roasted vegetable orzo situation and an orange chocolate bundt cake. To the chagrin of the other guests, I spent most of the lunch talking about cooking with the husband. As we bonded over his penchant for Ina Garten and listened to stories from dinner parties past, I mentioned that just like the Hamptons, dinner parties are making a huge comeback with my generation.

Okay, maybe the Hamptons never went out of style, but I have noticed both being a big deal among my peers. I did not grow up around dinner parties, as some of my friends did, lurking at the edge of dining rooms while their parents laughed over risotto. College had quite a few in store for me, complete with moody candles, cute invitations, and lots of rosé. Maybe it’s a symptom of breaking into your 20s. Although I hosted many informal dinners at my apartment, none were really “dinner party” worthy. The core was sitting around my table and giggling with my friends with large plates of something delicious.

braised short rib i made for bobby and april circa early 2024

Regardless of formality, I want this entry to inspire you to break bread with others. Even if you aren’t confident in your culinary abilities, I find that it’s not entirely about skill or foofy ingredients. Although these things can make (or break) an amazing meal, they are not the end all be all to treat your friends. I find that success comes mostly from listening and noticing. You may want an excuse to go all out on braised short rib or something impressive, but what’s the point if your friend is a vegetarian, or simply doesn’t like the bed of mashed potatoes you serve it on? You can line up your culinary planets if you pay attention just right.

When you do achieve serendipitous moments of success in your sharing, continue to listen even if you know you’ve won. The first time I made lechon for the holidays, I knocked it out of the park, in spite of my fear it wouldn’t live up to the family recipes that swirl around every winter. My grandmother told me that my lechon was the best she’d had since she’d been back on the island. As much as I wanted to do a victory lap, I stayed with her in the kitchen, and continued to watch her work on the noche buena spread. I learned invaluable advice from that time with her, such as the way we shred pork is with clean hands or with the shoulder bone, like an ax head. 

Be generous with not only your food, but your attention as well. After all, what’s the point of coming together for these meals if there’s no conversation? It can be snorting fits of laughter, but maybe it’s comfortable silence. Just share what you can, and more than just food.