Pearl moments
5 dishes that made me grateful to be alive last year
I once heard the phrase ‘pearl moment’ used to describe those times when everything feels just right. To experience a pearl moment is to know a very quiet kind of joy; a slow and comforting realisation that things might actually turn out alright, and maybe life is softer than it seems.
Pearl moments can be induced by absolutely anything. The obvious, dramatic ones might happen after watching a film that really resonates with you, as the lights come back on in the cinema, and you feel like something makes sense now that didn’t before. Or while hearing song lyrics on the radio that could have been written about your precise circumstances. Or seeing stars when there aren’t any clouds. But pearl moments can catch you off guard, too; they can happen in the simplest and most unexpected places. You could be on the bus running errands, and for no particular reason it dawns on you that you’ve lived in London for quite a long time now, and hasn’t it been wonderful, and isn’t it going to keep being wonderful, and isn’t it especially wonderful to be here, on the 141 to Newington Green, with this odd sense of peace that is almost intoxicating. The feeling might not last for long, but while it does, you feel like the most grateful person on the planet.
Many of my own pearl moments happen because of food, or around food, or as some indirect result of cooking and eating. I started this newsletter to chronicle them. Here are a few from last year…
One: orange juice
In the final line of her famous poem, after sharing an orange with friends on an ordinary day, Wendy Cope has her own pearl moment, declaring: ‘I love you. I’m glad I exist’. I understand exactly what she means.
A few of us had been invited to spend the weekend at a beautiful home in Delta del Ebro, Catalonia, owned by the grandparents of my friend, Anna. The trees in the garden were heavy with citrus - wrinkly lemons and huge, cartoon-like oranges. We spent the morning picking baskets of them, bringing our spoils back into the kitchen and unloading them triumphantly. We formed a production line of sorts - some of us slicing the fruit, others taking turns to squeeze it into the charming old juicer Anna’s grandparents had kept on hand for years. Drinking it greedily at breakfast that day, we were proud of what we’d made. And I was happy to be there, with my gang, in the yellow Spanish sun.
Two: rhubarb rice pudding
I remember the way this tasted with cinematic clarity. It was one of the first warm days of the year; the narrowboats docked along the canal outside Café Cecilia had their windows open. What we ate felt like the weather in a bowl; bright but still cosy, straddling two seasons. It was the perfect thing to eat on the cusp of spring in London.
Three: bavette with peppercorn sauce, greens, potatoes
This trip to Western’s Laundry was my first ever solo dining experience in a fancy restaurant. Some very generous friends had given me a voucher for my birthday, and I rather selfishly decided that instead of inviting someone else to share the meal, thus halving the benefit of the voucher, I would pluck up the courage to go without company.
For whatever reason, I made the booking incredibly early - 5:30pm, which is exactly when they open. Because of this, I realised as I walked to my table that I was the only person in the entire restaurant. A baptism of fire when it comes to eating alone! I decided that the only way to shake my initial discomfort was to romanticise the whole situation. I ordered a vermouth spritz, asked my lovely server about her favourite dishes on the menu, and relaxed into the evening. This steak was a dose of reassurance; the flavours felt familiar, and I sat there sipping my red wine, feeling like I’d done something quite cool.
Four: home-grown tomatoes!
I grew my tomatoes from seed in little terracotta pots on our patio. I wasn’t expecting much, but I surprised myself with how seriously I took the responsibility of tending to them. One evening before we had a party, my very gracious housemates helped me carry the pots to a sheltered corner of the garden, away from the threat of cigarette butts, and the spilled alcohol I was convinced would poison their soil. I shamelessly protected them, and became an anxiously attached parent. Absolutely tragic behaviour, but my dedication to the process paid off in the end.
I watched the tomatoes grow impatiently, from tiny green sprouts, to stalks that needed propping up with bamboo and garden twine. By late July, they were ready to harvest. Eating the first one was a gorgeously smug experience; no grocery shop tomato will ever compare.
To me, tomatoes are a perfect thing. I could eat them like sweets.
Five: spider crab omelette
This was a special meal, partly because it was an anniversary celebration, and partly because Mountain had gained mythical status in my mind by the time we ate there. Every food writer raved about it, every chef on TOPJAW fantasised about going, every guest from Off Menu drooled over the Brat-ness of it all. I felt something resembling imposter syndrome as I sat down.
This omelette helped shake any idea that we had to be on our best behaviour. It was creamy and delicate, cut by the saltiness of the crab. I adored the juxtaposition of it; the unassuming egg instantly elevated by the seafood.
I felt lucky to try it.
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).
Just beautiful xx