A long time ago, in the summer before my senior year of high school, I decided to cook. The causes behind my decision involved deep feelings of powerlessness. I perceived, without putting it into words, that choosing a dish and then systematically working toward reifying it would cause me to feel a greater sense of efficacy. In other words, making food helped me feel in control.
That August, I decided to make ratatouille. A children's movie by that title had just come out. However, instead of watching another movie that trivializes that which is deep and old, I chose to dig into the real deal.
However, I had also recently discovered the benefits of alcohol abuse. Thus, around 4 p.m. on a stormy August day, I stood over a simmering cauldron of eggplant while my boyfriend pretended he didn't know I'd just snuck back to my room alone for a couple shots of vodka.
I remember sitting at the table euphorically eating my vegetable mush while my oblivious parents emphatically complimented my culinary efforts. I myself was surprised at how awesome the ratatouille tasted. I remember wondering to what extent the alcohol facilitated my enjoyment. I had no idea I liked eggplant!
The other night as I walked home from the bus stop, I noticed more people than usual on the streets. I knew it was because of the drunk freshmen.
I thought about Madison and felt an ineffable sense of belonging, comfort and intimacy. I thought, ""But what about them? How do they relate to the Madison that I perceive?""
Then it hit me. ""They are ephemera,"" I thought.
Whenever I think of the word ""ephemera,"" I remember camping in Nauvoo, Illinois, with my parents a few years ago. There was a shit-ton of long, narrow bugs, with big, delicate wings. The next day, the bugs were dead all over the concrete near the bathroom, where they had gathered, seeking the light.
""They are ephemera,"" my father said.
The following are the two definitions my dictionary gives for the word ""ephemera"" :
An insect that (in its imago or winged form) lives only for a day.
One who or something which has a transitory existence.
Sure, drunk folks are experiencing something very transitory, but their existences are not necessarily more transient than anyone else's. Perhaps life as a drunk person only seems more transient, because their memories are more fragmented and chaotic.
The summer after junior year of high school, the summer of cooking and the discovery of vodka, my boyfriend and I played around with black scratch paper (the paper where you scratch off the black and underneath are rainbow colors). I remember angrily scraping out the word ""transience."" I did not know how to accept that everything must at some point end.
The Buddhist nun Bhikshuni Thubten Chodron writes, ""When things are in the nature of change, the only appropriate response is to relax and try to guide how they change with compassion."" I take this to heart: My junior year of college, after many dark nights of the soul searching and some hitting rock bottom, I changed my fundamental motivation from one of fear, self-criticism, and power-seeking to one of meaningful interpersonal connection and self-acceptance. In other words, I sought to be motivated by love.
And that's why, last April, I applied to be, and was accepted as, a Slow Food UW intern. The experience of food is one of the most ephemeral experiences around, and yet it is also one of the most essential. Each meal is like a Tibetan sand painting, created intentionally and filled with meaning, only to be joyously destroyed.
Interested in Slow Food? E-mail Angelica at aengel2@wisc.edu.
