Tonight I was perusing a book from the library entitled Alone in the Kitchen with and Eggplant, and the introduction by the editor Jenni Ferrari-Adler brought up some intense memories, thoughts of the cramped kitchen in Berlin, where I felt I was alone, despite my three roommates. In the apartment I had company, but in the kitchen I felt alone, missing my college friends, for whom and with whom cooking was a great joy. Like the book's editor, I felt loneliest when contemplating how to feed myself. I would get hungry, but not feel the inspiration or motivation for preparing a proper meal, and instead opt for a slice of cold-cut turkey and cheese, rolled up and eaten with my fingers. I don't know how many times Alex would scold me, after finding out my evening nourishment consisted only of popcorn, or müsli and tea.
For some reason this started me thinking of this blog, what it has meant to me to keep it, and how I left it, abandoned with so many posts imagined but left unwritten. Naturally, my readers have trailed off after months without posts, but this post is for me, for the blog, even if no one else comes to read it. Despite my dislike of the word "blog" itself, writing this record has been one of the most rewarding and illuminating tasks I have undertaken in the last 18 months. It has brought me to the realization that I love to write. I love to analyze life, people, cultures, everything. I love to ruminate on complicated topics, trying to distill them into something understandable and thought provoking.
I left off writing in the last two weeks before my move back to the United States because of some shocking news, the worst kind of news to get when you are far away. My mother had breast cancer, and was going to undergo a double mastectomy the day after I was scheduled to arrive home. I was crippled by worry, by the distance that separated me from her and the consolation of seeing and feeling that she was alright. I found out when I was in Venice, visiting my friend Monica who was indulging in a passionate affair with a good-hearted Italian man she had met when she vacationed their months before. Unfortunately I got the news right as I was packing up to return to Berlin, and thus I missed out on the in-person support Monica could have offered. I was, however, relieved that I had not found out sooner, since I knew my vibrant and traumhafte time in Venice would in that case have turned to ash. From the moment I got the news, I just wanted to be home. The sadness and deep regret I felt at the thought of leaving my home, Saalestraße 38, 1. Etage Rechts, evaporated in the face of my urgency to get home and be with my family. Part of me knew that my mother was holding up well, and had lots of support. But the selfish part of me that wanted to comfort myself by being home to do small things to feel helpful and supportive, that part was stronger. I knew I couldn't save her from the hardships of recovery, but at least if I were there I could load the dishwasher, something, anything.
These thoughts propelled my through my last days, energizing me as I dismantled my room and packed my things, keeping notalgia at bay. But now, six months later, my mother healthy and heroic in her recovery, I return to that nostalgia, to the Heimweh I knew would accompany me after my departure from Berlin. I think back not just to the practical things I miss, like the unparalleled public transportation system and recycling programs, but also to the sensations of living in that, my beloved city. The feeling of pounding the cobblestone sidewalks to catch the bus, of looking forward to sitting down to a big bowl of vietnamese curry at my favorite restaurant My Hamy, and reading a book there over my solitary meal. I even think back to the solitary meals I prepared for myself in that narrow little kitchen, chopping vegetables on top of the washing machine. I think about the hours spent listening to This American Life and NPR's Kitchen Window podcasts as I painstakingly cleaned kilos of spinach bought at rock-bottom prices from the Turkish Market, dealing as patiently as possible with the many stow-aways that were often the real cost of those cut-rate comistables. My go-to meal when I felt I popcorn was not going to cut it? pasta with vegetables (spinach if I was lucky) and feta, tossed with a bit of olive oil and salt. Or, during Spargelzeit, a big plate full of white asparagus peeled and boiled with butter with a salad on the side.
It's probably not surprising that food has finally brought me back to provide some closure for this blog, and this singular time in my life. I feel, however, that this isn't really the end, but a commitment that there will be more to come. In my heart I hope providence will bring my back to Berlin. For now I am committed to seeking the next opportunity, the next adventure wherever that may be. Perhaps it will soon be Z in Brazil, or Z in Berkely. Time will tell, if only I can stay patient enough to let it have its say.
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