There are few things more confronting than something that “is” the same, but is not, actually, the same. One site of crystallization for this phenomenon is food. Since arriving in New Zealand, I’ve been exploring the food scene and relishing the freshness of the offerings. I’ve had more spectacular avocado toast these past few months than I’ve had in my life. I enjoyed a lamb shank so good it nearly made me cry. And, particularly at this time of year, not having access to certain items—frivolous as they might be (I’m looking at you, butterscotch chips)—is really heartbreaking.
My hand holding an iced gingerbread snowflake with other gingerbread cookies in the background
Yesterday I posted a Tweet about some things I “can’t” get and was corrected on some of these, with folks helpfully sharing that these were indeed available. And then I burst into tears and couldn’t stop crying.
Because yes, I CAN get salsa—but the flavours are profoundly different.
Sure, I can buy gherkins with dill, but they don’t have the crunch and ferment-y goodness of a Bubbie’s dill pickle.
Absolutely, there is plain yogurt and lots of it, but the cultures are slightly different, leading to a different mouthfeel and tang.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of my biggest crashes have come after a trip to the grocery store. I miss President’s Choice brand (yes, I know, it’s just a brand, but come on—you KNOW “The Decadent” chocolate chip cookies conjure memories of middle-class Canadian childhood), canned pumpkin, and yes, butterscotch chips (I really, really wanted to make Hello Dollies, until I learned that butterscotch chips and graham crackers are not “a thing” here).
I spent much of the day yesterday in the kitchen, preparing food for the week and getting into the festive spirit. During these absolutions, it struck me that food is so deeply tied to culture, to family, to a sense of place. As I rolled out the gingerbread dough I crossed my fingers that blackstrap molasses would do in place of organic unsulphered. As I piped icing around the snowflakes I wondered if the lack of meringue powder would be obvious in the taste and texture. I simultaneously took comfort in the sameness and lamented the difference.
Food is emblematic, in some ways, of the move. There is so much to love in the new and the zesty bits of this life that I feel like I’m being ungrateful when I mention the difference—and particularly, the lack. But I do believe there is room to celebrate the good, the exciting, the fresh, while feeling the loss of the familiar, the comforting, and the tried-and-true.
While pining for butterscotch chips might seem silly, or even petulant, it’s not really about the butterscotch chips. It’s about the memories that a piping hot tray of Hello Dolly squares evokes of childhood hugs and Christmas carols while the snow drifts down outside. Idealized, certainly, but memories do that, don’t they? Food embodies memories—for better or for worse, for “true” or for imagined. And building new visceral connections to the nourishment of this place takes time.