Basking in the Aftertaste

How food memories transport and define us.

Hello lovely readers! How are you today? I was lamenting to a friend that July has become busier than I’d like and that I felt I’d been neglecting my newsletter. But even though I’m still operating under summer hours (read: irregular schedule), I’m committed to showing up here, both to explore what’s in my heart and mind and hoping that you’ll find something in my words that resonates with you. As always, thank you for being here!

AFTERTASTE: persistence of a sensation (as of flavor or an emotion) after the stimulating agent or experience has gone. (Source: Merriam-Webster)

Food memories are one of the most powerful types of memory for me—they’re connected to important people and places, yes, but the craving to return to these moments, the sheer force of nostalgia and the emotions wrapped up in that, is what etches them so deeply in my mind.

In this way, food is a powerful conduit for flashback, a way to time travel if you will, and something I’m exploring in my memoir. Sometimes it’s because something I ate in present day reminds me of a dish from my past, other times it’s the emotion evoked by a particular flavor profile that hurtles me back to a specific time and place. In the novel Aftertaste, by Daria Lavelle, food and memory are a powerful portal for not only exploring identity and the human condition, but bringing back the people associated with these taste memories.

Aftertaste’s protagonist, Konstantin “Kostya” Duhovny, becomes an accidental chef. He finds that when tastes arrive in his mouth, whether they are his memories or that of others, he is able to recreate the dish and emotion imbued in it so exactly, he can summon the dearly departed’s ghost. Sometimes, this means intentionally burning the dish, other times scouring specialty shops for the right spice. Kostya is haunted by his own taste memory and his desire to bring his father back, if only temporarily, to make amends and stem the tide of grief for a spell. What I especially loved about this book—besides the beautiful food writing and fresh premise—is that the book explores the question “What are you hungry for?” It’s one that I’ve learned to ask myself throughout my personal growth journey, and one whose answers reflect both what’s on my plate and deep in my heart.

On a recent trip to Washington, D.C. to research a story about Lebanese restaurants, so many dishes transported me to my sita’s house in Iron Mountain, Michigan. I sampled delicate grape leaves, ethereal hummus, zippy tabbouleh, and tender kibbeh, the nostalgia so potent that when I looked up from my plate I expected the table to be laid with her Fiestaware. My Lebanese-American grandmother’s table was where I always felt welcome, a safe place to land every summer during visits from whatever country we called home that year, and somewhere I learned to become fluent in my maternal family’s love language: food is love.

The dish that surprised me the most on my D.C. trip was a plate of kibbeh nayeh prepared by chef Layla Iskandar at Villa Yara (pictured above). It wasn’t just the flavors and texture—finely ground raw beef and bulgur formed into a silky tartare and plated in a puddle of olive oil—it was the emotion connected to this dish. Although I’ve always been an adventurous eater (in part because of my dad, in part because of the different places we lived), the appeal of kibbeh nayeh eluded me as a kid. What jolted me back to my my sita’s table was the realization that this was a dish that had always intimidated me, yet despite my desire to not touch it, tasting the cold, pink meaty pancake cemented my status as a good eater. None of my older cousins had dared try the dish to date, and I couldn’t help but feeling like I’d garnered bonus points with my sita and earned the approval of the adults in the room.

I realize now how this expectation makes eating a performative act. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint my father, who made a show of proffering a small slice and whose mantra “how do you know you don’t like something unless you’ve tried it?” was a constant refrain throughout childhood. And I especially didn’t want to let my grandmother down. In her house, food was not only love; she declared that “food is a labor of love,” and you reciprocated her efforts and abundant hospitality by clearing your plate or taking seconds, even when you were full. Food became wrapped up in my worth, even at the expense of overriding my fullness cues and sating what I was actually hungry for, something that deeply informed my attitudes towards feeding others and what or how much I ate as an adult.

Both Aftertaste and the excavation of my past has given me a lot to reflect on. And I’m curious: Do you have a taste memory so strong it instantly transports you to the restaurant or home kitchen in which you sampled it? Or maybe a bite that is deeply connected to a sense of longing, love, grief, or anger, an aftertaste that truly transcends time? I’d love to hear if you’re open to sharing—simply reply to this email or leave me a comment.