The Spice Drawer

Over the past six months (leisurely) and in the past three weeks (intensely), I’ve cleaned out and packed up my entire house where I’ve been living for the past 10 years. I went through every bit and bob of what I owned and either:

• gave it away (fiddle leaf fig, grill, chairs, stuffed animals,¹ blender, rugs)
• sold it (car, coffee table, lamp, iPad)
• put it into storage (art, mementos, chairs)
• took it with me (very little, mostly clothes & computing things)

Parting with my possessions was surprisingly easy. I’d been planning this move for a while now and had time to get used to the idea and say my farewells. And the concept of having a bunch of stuff, 95% of which I never used or thought about or even remembered owning, was really starting to make me itch. So out it went; I felt lighter with each thing that exited the house.

But I wasn’t expecting the spice drawer.

I was working my way through the kitchen when I opened the drawer with all of my spices and baking supplies. A pause. What do I do with these? I picked up a jar of smoked paprika and was suddenly flung back in time to 12 years ago. I remember exactly where I bought that paprika and why.

I’d recently moved into my own apartment after separating from my wife and was still trying to figure out how my new household was going to work. My kids came over a few times a week; what the hell were we going to eat for dinner? I was competent but not confident in the kitchen; Meg is a great cook and I couldn’t match her effort or output. I had to come up with my own meals that a) I could cook, b) the kids would actually eat, and c) were somewhat healthy.

One of the recipes I found was for smoky corn chowder, so I headed to the grocery store on 23rd St. to buy ingredients, including a jar of smoked paprika. The kids loved the corn chowder and it became a favorite of ours — something that they only ate over at Dad’s house.

Over the years, the kids and I amassed a small collection of recipes we loved and often had at my house — caldo verde, lasagne, buttermilk pancakes, taco salad, apple pie, and others — and the spices to cook them: oregano, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, basil, baking soda, Ortega Taco Seasoning Mix 😂. I pulled each spice container out of the drawer and tried to remember what I’d cooked with it, what dishes it was in that we’d eaten together. I opened the tops to sniff some of the spices and was more strongly pulled back into those times when my kids were small and I was worried — no, I was terrified — about not being up to the task of filling their tummies, minds, and souls with the good stuff on my watch.

Man, so much of our time together revolved around food. The spice drawer hit me hard because it was a powerful olfactory reminder not only of the delicious meals we’d shared but also of my insecurity around parenting, how I slowly gained confidence, and how I eventually found freedom & pride in what I was able to offer my kids.

In the end, I had to throw all the spices out — no takers for half-used, decade-old containers of parsley flakes or jars of cumin — but I’ll always remember cleaning out that drawer and all of the memories it stirred up. Proust had his madeleines, but I doubt I’ll ever pass by a jar of smoked paprika in the supermarket or in someone’s spice drawer without feeling all of it all over again.

1. I gave away a bunch of miscellaneous stuffed animals that my kids had accumulated over the years — not the beloved ones — and I was sitting working on my deck when a woman showed up to collect them. “Are you the stuffed animal guy?” she called to me. “Yes,” I said, “and I don’t think I’ve been referred to like that before.” In telling this story to others, she became “the stuffed animal lady”. Everything is relative. ↩

• food
• Jason Kottke
• parenting