On Remembering
A small study of taste, memory, and the quiet ways we love people.
I keep notes in my phone contacts, tucked beneath names like footnotes to a person. No mayo. Berry pie over apple. Loves her grandma’s hummingbird cake. Hates overhead lights at dinner.
I may forget to text you back for three days, but I know how you order a martini. I’ll forget someone’s birthday, but remember they hate cilantro. I remember who needs a little bite of good chocolate after dinner, who eats around the olives, who wants extra salt without asking. My brain is a junk drawer of the wrong details - or maybe the right ones, depending on what you think memory is for.
There’s a specific pleasure in being remembered this way. Not in broad strokes - but in the margins. The almost-throwaway things that say: I’ve been paying attention, even when it didn’t look like it. I know what you reach for. I remember.
These aren’t grand gestures. They’re what’s left behind when you show up enough times to notice patterns. The residue of proximity.
Here’s the thing about attention: it doesn’t look like much when it’s happening.
My husband appears out of nowhere with toast when I forget to eat (again). I remember that my friend has a favorite brand of fancy mustard. I notice she only likes popcorn made with coconut oil and a little nutritional yeast. That she only drinks their coffee with real cream. Says he likes medium, but always steals bites of someone else’s medium-rare.
None of this is big.
But it’s what begins to collect when you love someone long enough to study their rhythms. The unspoken preferences. The tiny, private field notes you gather over time. The anthropology of feeding someone often enough to know what makes them feel at home.
That’s the part of hosting that feels intimate - the moment a dish lands in front of someone made exactly the way they like it. The moment you pour the wine you know they’ll reach for before they do.
And man, it feels good to be seen like that. Not in the big, declarative ways - but in the small, specific ones.
The world is feral right now - impatient, overstimulated, asking us to perform. To show up, make the meal, execute the holiday. I just left the market and everyone has forgotten their manners and sense of personal space. The aisles are grabby. Everyone’s head down and hands full. List-first, heart later.
So paying attention might be the most romantic, disarming, grounding thing we have left. Awareness feels like the only love language I trust.
So heading into this week, I’m choosing to pay attention. Not as some moral high ground. Just the decision to notice. Watching for the little tells. Who lights up and who needs space. Who tenses when the room is too loud. Who’s tired. Who’s trying.
The most generous thing I can offer isn’t perfection. It’s the thing I remembered. The detail I held onto when no one was looking.
Maybe that’s the whole point. You just show up and pay attention until slowly, occasionally, miraculously, someone feels known.
Because sometimes love is just saving the crispy corner. Sometimes it’s remembering they take their gin very cold and very dry, stirred not shaken. Sometimes it’s watching someone taste something and remember a flavor they’d almost forgotten.
The world is loud. But the things that matter are quiet.
And if you show up enough times and actually look, you start to hear them.
If your Thanksgiving is intimate and pared back this year - consider this small, luxurious feast. Simple, elegant, and perfect for cooking with someone you love.
Caramelized Onion and Gruyère Tart
New York Strip Roast with Rosemary + Smoked Salt Crust, Shallot Jus
Browned Butter Parsnip + Horseradish Purée
Charred Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta Maple Glaze
Warm Chocolate Soufflé, Espresso Whip
