a note from early spring

on fluidity, natural growth, and living with the seasons.

Before we get started, a bit of housekeeping (and some bittersweet news).

As you probably know by now, At The Table is growing! Much like the letters sent to your inbox each week, this new hyper-seasonal format of At The Table will seek to address the dynamic nature of food in our modern world, with themes of equity, sustainability, and seasonality in mind.

Food is about much more than the things on our plates. It is a lens through which to see the world and connect to one another. It is a tool for communication and a vessel for change. It crosses cultural and political boundaries and showcases the many hidden paths that bring us back together.

With this publication, I will continue to honor that intersectional and interdisciplinary space. Through essays, recipes, illustrations and more, I hope to bring attention not only to the food we eat, but to the people and stories behind it. At this table, food will be more than just a recipe or a photograph — it will become a way to unpack the complex issues facing our modern world, as well as a tool for artistic expression and human connection.

However, in an effort to sustain my own creative energy (and keep your inbox relatively clear) these newsletters will be growing much more infrequent — but they will not disappear! In an attempt to emphasize the fluid nature of life and changing seasons, I will be sending these letters when it feels right to do so. When inspiration strikes, so to speak. This might mean that a sunny poem will arrive on a cold and rainy day, or an essay will emerge out of inevitable future conflict in the world of food media. Perhaps it will mean a new recipe when the produce changes, or a drawing of a summer garden in full bloom. It means that life is flexible, and words are too.

To tide you over for now, an excerpt is below from the first issue of At The Table: Early Spring. To stay updated on future issues and other projects, follow At The Table on Instagram. Thank you all for your continued support!

I’ll see you soon.

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The best thing I’ve ever eaten was an oyster.

It wasn’t just any oyster, like the ones that come with East Village happy hour specials, but an oyster plucked from a reef on a small research island off the coast of Florida. I was visiting a friend whose parents are ecologists, trained to study the intricate patterns of the land and all that it has to offer.

The air that day was cold and wet, and by the time our boat reached the sand my clothes were soaked all the way through. We walked along the shore for a while before climbing to the research lab perched atop the island. It was becoming difficult to find joy in the soggy and grey landscape, and the group’s morale was slowly declining. And then, as if in some form of divine intervention, the sun suddenly emerged, illuminating the leaves and our spirits. With newfound energy, we frolicked down to the water and began to plan our harvest.

I sat in a little metal canoe, dipping my fingers into warm murky water and plucking the hard shells from rock formations. We brought our bounty back to the dock, unloading it onto a large and shaky wooden countertop. Condiments and other snacks were unpacked from a cooler, as the table filled with fresh limes and oranges and a jar of homemade tomato hot sauce. We shucked the oysters in a big sink, eating them as we went. Water to hands to mouth.

It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten not because I love oysters more than any other food, or because the flavor was superior to other oysters I had previously eaten. It was the feeling, the pure and all consuming intimacy with the food as it entered my body. It was a day that started out with cloudy skies and ended with bright citrus. The oysters tasted like a tangible connection to the world around me, and to the many beautiful and delicious things that it continues to feed me.

In modern day America, this connection between land and food and people is often lost. Supermarket shelves are filled with bright red tomatoes and peppers in the middle of the New England winter. Ready to make meals have become the standard for busy working families and individuals, with recipes and creativity devolving into prepackaged meal kits and microwavable dinners. Oysters are shucked ahead of time, served on a shiny metal stand. The supply chain from earth to plate is so muddled by processing and marketing that the path has become practically untraceable.

It’s a problem I have thought about often, and one that continues to stump me. How do we begin to minimize these degrees of separation? How do we move towards a future in which food is seen as something of value, treated with the same admiration as a new iPhone or a fancy car? How do we learn to respect the land that keeps us alive, building a supply chain that mutually benefits humans and nature instead of depleting resources and disrupting ecosystems?

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