I love beautiful food. I love me a good old fashioned instagrammable meal. I am one of those people who snaps photos of all her food before digging in. Wait, this is a freaking food blog. Of course I do this.
But is only the pretty stuff worth sharing? The NYT recently exhorted people to Instagram their boring meals, a move I endorse, even if their contributor offered the thinnest rationale. “Do a huge favor for culinary historians and offer us a glimpse of the ordinary,” Laura Shapiro wrote. “A hundred years from now (assuming somebody has figured out how to archive this stuff) scholars will be riveted to your images of the everyday, and you — or at least your Instagram handle — will be immortal.”
And honestly–for posterity’s sake? For anthropologists’ benefit in the year 2117? It’s 80F in Los Angeles in late December, Puerto Rico is still without power, the country seems to have already forgotten that mere weeks ago 600 people were shot in one night in Las Vegas, and that’s to say nothing of oh, you know, potentially impending nuclear war and melting Arctic ice sheets. Shapiro has way more confidence in the future of the planet, or even just civilization, than I do.
Do not do it for the historians. I support sharing your leftovers and ugly dishes because real life is more than just late afternoon light dancing across a 15-ingredient salad set upon a Carrara marble countertop. Real life is not a waffle cone with four scoops of ice cream, three different types of sprinkles, and Pocky sticks, chocolate drizzle and matcha charcoal whipped cream popping off it. Real life is not a 24/7 sensory explosion.
Instagram is not a full portrait of actual life. On this, Shapiro and I agree. Instagram is a mediated, curated (barf) reality. Real life is crusty and awkward and poorly lit and tear-stained. It’s looking down and finding dried egg yolk stuck to the crotch of sweatpants you were wearing when you ate lunch on your lap–the day before. It’s the recognition that everyone, even people who seem to “have it all” (more barf), is facing something very hard in their lives. Life is leaning in for the kiss that you know may be the last you share with someone you love. It’s also filled with miracles, like this bowl of yogurt, swimming in a pool of lemon cream.
C gave me a precious jar for my birthday. The most delightful thing about it, besides the fact that she made it, is that it comes from a recipe from the 1700s which was dug up by these zany guys who run a shop which specializes in fashion, furniture, and homegoods from the 18th century. (Are they also the kinds of people who take part in Civil War reenactments? I am not sure I want to know.) Their YouTube channel is a hoot. I urge you to check out their lemon cream video, and witness their commitment to historical accuracy. I don’t want to ruin anything for you, but it’s worth a watch for the whisk alone.
C’s version, made with raw sugar, came out a tarnished ochre color. It sloshes around, and is hardly appetizing to look at. But spoon it over a bowl of yogurt and into your mouth and… transcendence. It’s citrusy but not at all tart, and is more a syrup than a cream but somehow rich enough that I could have sworn there was butter in it. (There isn’t.) I take measured scoops of it from the jar, fighting warring impulses to save and devour it every time.
I share it with you here not because it’s beautiful but because, my God, it’s delicious. And because this jar of ugly lemon cream is one of the sweetest gifts I received in my very real 2017 life.