A is for Adulthood
Round one in the ring
If you are reading this then you are most likely a fortunate friend or family member upon whom I have inflicted an obligatory subscription to my new venture. Alphabet Soup is my attempt at a weekly (fingers crossed) discussion about food, cooking, writing and eating, loosely structured around the A-Z.
The inspiration for the rigidity of structure comes from the greatest food writer of all time (not just my opinion) — M.F.K Fisher’s An Alphabet for Gourmets has been sitting on my bedside table for about four years, ever since I first found a copy of it in a dusty French bookshop. This particular edition (I have a few) has been thumbed to death as I find myself reaching for it on all occasions. If I can’t sleep then I read the chapter M is for Monastic, if I need a morning jolt of laughter, then it’s B is for Bachelors. Her writing is incomparable and so, in vain, this newsletter will honour MFK by continuing with an alphabetical theme, with each issue being themed around one letter. So, without further ado — A is for Adulthood.
A is for Adulthood
It seems a strange subject to be starting on seeing as I really know nothing about it but the past few months have had me furiously considering the touchy topic of adulthood. I am 24 years old (although if we discount the Cov-years, I am still 22) and yet, I still feel 15 most of the time. I live away from home and I go to work (most days) but at what stage am I supposed to start feeling like a real and proper grown-up? I’ve asked around and I’m not sure anyone really knows.
Adulthood, noun: the period in the human lifespan in which full physical and intellectual maturity have been attained
I’ve found that the greatest juxtaposition of feeling juvenile and feeling my actual age tends to occur in the supermarket. Firstly — the supermarket / market / corner shop (any variation) has always been my happy place. It is where I go when I’m in need of inspiration, nourishment, cradling, or just some fresh air. Where I live in Paris is a sort of intersection, where four arrondissements come crashing into each other, creating a wild tapestry of cultures and thereby a patchwork of food stores. From Chez Jojo, the traditional Kosher butchers to Les Halles de l’Asie, the sprawling Chinese supermarket, the variation is unbounded.
But for day-to-day shopping (a concept I will come on to later), the classic French supermarkets lay on a pretty standardised offering. Carrefour City is a hectic place with a very judgemental security guard but with the cheapest vegetables in the coin. The G20 is a strange cavern in which you can seldom find what you’re looking for but tend to exit with a funky smelling goat’s cheese that was not on your list. Our nearest Monoprix is a little walk away but worth the trudge back up the hill as it truly stands up to the name supermarket. Much like a British superstore, the floor-plan is neatly sectioned with separate fish and meat counters and a decadent fromagerie, making it an elite shopping experience.
In order to preemptively avoid monotony, I try to vary the supermarkets in which I shop but what I struggle with the most is the practice of planning ahead. I write endless shopping lists on my phone and on the backs of receipts, which are amusing to look back through, but shopping for more than two days at a time always feels a gargantuan task.
Despite my best efforts, each shop tends to total a mere 10 euros and occurs four to five times a week. This haphazardry leads to 7am milk runs in my pyjamas (under jeans, I’m not a heathen), and suppers lacking crucial ingredients due to my incapability of shopping sensibly. And so when, a few weeks ago, I found myself on a sunny Sunday morning perusing the shelves of Franprix in wonderment, dutifully deciding on what I wanted to eat for the weeks ahead, I felt like Jennifer Garner. A fully stocked fridge and freezer consisting of: eggs, butter, cheese (bleu d’Auvergne and chèvre), fruit, veg, baguette, frozen gyoza, OJ, bulgur wheat, radiatori pasta, cornichons etc. The satisfaction of a chocka fridge and the knowledge that it was economically responsible (yawn) was great but I was sure that when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror afterwards I could spy a few wrinkles appearing.
Shopping List for you
Wet Leg’s new album
Dream of a buying a cheap French country house
Dirt by Bill Buford
Noah Verrier’s edible art
Cafe Cecilia’s hot cross buns
Alix Laloche’s remedy for a bland picnic
Thank you for reading edition #1 of Alphabet Soup, if by next week you haven’t unsubscribed, you will be receiving B is for….
What a lovely surprise to come across this … thanks to Mama N’s fb share! Keep going!
Absolutely loved it Tori. Clever and funny xx