To quote Kylie Jenner’s 2016 new years resolutions, for me, 2024 has been about realising things. As we approach its end, I thought I’d share three of the lessons I’ve come to learn, and some dishes I’ve made along the way that hopefully help the messages land a little better.
The lesson: history is a kind of intimacy, too
There’s no formula for how to feel close to someone. Closeness in friendships can look like a lot of things. Of course, there are the recognisable, perhaps more obvious signs of connection: sharing values, communicating in similar styles, knowing your lives are unfolding in tandem with each other. Friends you turn to first for advice, who see the world as you do. Those whose moral compasses or political outlooks sharpen your own, who take time to understand you in the here and now, who make you braver. Nothing compares to the feeling of a long conversation with someone who picks out the nuances you thought no one else noticed, and the pang of validation that follows.
Being compatible with another human in this way is magic, but there’s another kind of intimacy that I’ve become particularly grateful for this year: familiarity. This is a slower, perhaps less sexy sort of closeness, but it’s incredibly precious. To have been known by someone over many years, to have had someone bear witness to the ‘zoomed-out’ you, to your choices and your changes, to your life in macro - is a very beautiful thing. These friendships don’t demand constant maintenance or the perfect alignment of views. They hum in the background, sustained by time. They aren’t flashy or new, but they’re grounding - a kind of emotional shorthand that makes you feel tethered to your own existence.
Of course, these two types of closeness can co-exist within the same friendship, and multiple dynamics can exist simultaneously. But this year I’ve come to tell the difference, and it’s expanded my capacity for gratitude.
The meal: minestrone soup, pesto, buttered toast
Soothing, life-affirming, possible to make at any given moment using ingredients you already have. Floury bread (toasted until slightly burnt), coated in salted butter. White cabbage fried in good olive oil, two tins of chopped tomatoes, cannellini beans, a handful of fusilli, chicken stock. Vegetable minesweep of the fridge post-Christmas: leftover potatoes, celery, carrots, garlic, leeks, all fried until soft with rosemary, oregano, thyme, black pepper. Topped with dollops of pesto. Sincerely unglamorous, never lets you down.
The lesson: curiosity is more important than certainty
As an eldest daughter, a recovering teacher’s pet, and a Scorpio, I consider myself to be a fairly principled person who experiences emotions very deeply. I can be stubborn about my perspective on things, and while this makes me a fun addition to a pub quiz team, it sometimes means I miss particular details that lie beyond my own beliefs in the name of being true to myself.
This year has taught me to get comfortable with changing my mind, with considering alternative truths and resisting the urge to double down within the safe zone of my opinions. I’ve decided I don’t want to be the kind of person who thinks they’ve ‘arrived’ at any objective truth; I want be in pursuit of holding multiple truths at once. I want to stay curious.
This sentiment is delivered much more eloquently by Ralph Fiennes’s character in Conclave, a film I watched over Christmas. “Certainty is the great enemy of unity,” he says. “It is the deadly enemy of tolerance”. These lines moved me in a way I wasn’t expecting, and I want to take them with me.
The meal: pickle martinis and caviar crisps
I made dirty martinis and caviar crisps for my family over the festive period, which they absolutely hated. I adore them for humouring me, though, and for giving my culinary whims a try. Vodka, dry vermouth, dill pickle brine, shaken with ice and garnished with a whole chubby gherkin on a cocktail stick. Salty crinkle cut crisps with soured cream and fish roe. A guaranteed pause for thought at your next dinner party.
The lesson: rest needs to be disciplined
I’m a better person when I’m living slowly. Going to Athens for the spring and summer months gave me a new determination to stay slow, to remain within slowness wherever and however I possibly can. But without realising I think I’ve ended up slipping into old habits now I’m in London again, living at a hundred miles an hour and cramming plans into my diary almost urgently.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that rest needs to be disciplined. It needs to be strictly factored into my schedule, and protected at all costs. Slow mornings, early nights, solo cinema dates, time to craft, time to think, time to come back to myself. It must be mandated into my life, and I must respect the necessity of it.
I’ve realised that rest is worth saying ‘no’ for. It’s worth disappointing people for. I’ve learned that the fear of missing out, as scary as it might seem, is much kinder to my brain than social fatigue and burnout will ever be. And besides, it’s quite hot and mysterious to let people miss you once in a while.
The meal: girl dinner picnic
Breadsticks and hummus in the sun (can be substituted for any pre-packaged, low effort, slightly chaotic assortment of snacks). Zero preparation, maximum enjoyment. The gastronomic epitome of rest.
Digital Supper Club is a newsletter written by me, Anna. What’s on the menu? Aside from tacky culinary puns, you can expect essays on the cultural significance of food; the social currency of it, its history, and its joys. I’ll be sharing recipes, restaurant reviews, my musings on food-based art and literature, and maybe even some poetry peppered here and there (I warned you about the puns).
wise old woman xx
dreamy read to bring in the new year x