What I Ate in One Year: (and related thoughts)

by Stanley Tucci

It’s not much fun watching someone you love age. Especially someone as active and engaged as my father. It’s hard because it seems so unfair. It’s hard because it’s what we all fear. It’s hard because we know it’s inevitable.

There’s a yew in Scotland that is thought to be five thousand years old, still thriving and growing new shoots.

It is my family’s belief that the mince needs to have at least 30 percent fat for the meatballs to come out as they should.

(In England it’s difficult to find beef mince with a high fat content because the animals are primarily fed on grass, not on corn, grains, plant husks, and soy like American cattle. British cattle are also not injected with hormones or antibiotics, unlike their US counterparts, which is better for everyone.)

In fact, unlike her son, she seems to be reverse aging. How? Why? Genetics. Diet. Metabolism. Yes, of course. But also… movement. Movement is life affirming and life extending.

(besides the mince, bread is the most crucial ingredient to a good meatball)

Looking at something for just that little bit longer than you might normally will change not only the way you see that thing but everything else thereafter.

The event was lovely. The food was not. Watermelon gazpacho was the first course. After I tasted it, I feared the second course of rolled beef slathered in a green paste would be just as unnecessarily fussy and strange, so I opted out.

Life is so short and tasting food of all kinds brings me such joy that I could never be so dogmatic, but it is an admirable choice if it suits one.

In short, he had been overmedicated by his doctors, which is not uncommon in the States, especially when it comes to the elderly.

What was equally fascinating but not nearly as positive was the small, sad lobby café in this brand-new state-of-the-art hospital.

To add insult to injury, the coffee was dreadful.

Why is it that when people are doing all they can to keep you healthy or even save your life, they undermine their heroic efforts by giving you awful food?

When someone you love dies, you absorb them. You take on their feelings and simultaneously experience life through their eyes and their heart as well as your own. In essence, you become them. This is not a conscious choice. It just happens. And it happens because one is not yet fully capable of accepting that person’s absence. It keeps them alive. Or at least it makes them less dead.

Not only had my soccer hero just scored and I had missed it, but it turned out that it was the last professional goal he would ever score. I missed “The Greatest of All Time” score the final goal of his career just so I could watch the other “The Greatest” urinate.

Made mushroom risotto for me and Felicity. It turned out very well. So much easier to make it for just two people.

Risotto milanese was one of my favorite things that my mother made when I was a kid.

Risotto is such a delicate and temperamental thing. It takes the patience of a saint to make it, and significant concentration as well.

I’m not always a fan of grilled vegetables but these were rather large and would not have been good to sauté as they would have been too watery, and I didn’t have the energy to bake them alla parmigiana. So, I marinated them, fired up the barbecue, and threw them on, and of course some fell through the grate, which really annoyed me.

And the angrier I get about the devastation his visit has wrought upon my supper, the angrier I get about his gall and the inappropriateness of his visit and how much it has unsettled me.

But what kind of person, may I ask, decides to knock on someone’s door unannounced on a Saturday evening between cocktail hour and dinnertime and ask them for a favor related to the most painful time in their life? Has he never heard of letter writing?

I mean, really? I hesitate to go to my neighbors, with whom I am friendly, and ask to borrow a cup of sugar!

I was hoping you’d pop by on a Saturday evening while I’m enjoying some much-needed quality time with my family and bring up my dead wife and my older children’s pain and grief, because I hadn’t thought about any of those things enough this week!

but in a subsequent email exchange he was very offended when she suggested that it was inappropriate of him to come to my home.

There were plates of whole pineapples skewered with other fruit and tiny quiches and things that looked like they may have been kept in a deep freeze since the eighties and defrosted for just this occasion.

Millie is in the last stages of chicken pox and isn’t very happy. She asked for pasta with butter and cheese, and I could not say no. She is very brave.

Is he an anti-vaxxer?

It was done last year when I was away working, so I wasn’t here to say, Oh, could you please not do that?

He remains intent on catching an adder. I remain intent on his not.

Fortunately, blackberry bushes grow wild all over England. They are the sweetest weed.

However, the place is not precious or fussy in the way “starry” restaurants can be. The menu is Nieves’s take on Spanish tapas and then some. In short, it’s one of the best restaurants I’ve ever been to, and she is one of the nicest people one could ever meet.

Also discovered that Matteo now has chicken pox just as Millie’s spots are drying up and disappearing. His case seems milder, however, and he is in good spirits.

???

It was my deservedly hearty breakfast after cleaning up the garden and continuing to strip the varnish off the handsome outdoor furniture that was made ugly by the varnishing zealot. The chili was delish, but I’m not sure why. This is the reason I will never be a great cook. I never measure anything.

I hate measuring things. This is most likely because I am numerically handicapped or am afflicted by what is properly known as dyscalculia. Therefore, measuring, or, God forbid, converting measurements, is a form of slow torture.

Neurodivergence!

Well, as the old saying goes, one man’s pet is another pet’s meal.

I made tagliatelle with raw tomatoes that had been marinated in EVOO, garlic, and basil in the fridge.

Best made in the summer when tomatoes are in season and very ripe. Larger tomatoes work better than cherry tomatoes.

Farmers’ markets ground us but also remind us, for better or worse, of the passage of time. Spring and its greens, summer and its tomatoes, autumn and its squash, winter and its black kale subtly guide us through another year.

Sadly, we used an inferior brand of tagliatelle, which fell apart as I stirred it in the pot. It was unworthy of his sauce.

I told my parents that I had bought the supermarket brand because it was inexpensive. Their response was something like, “What?! No! Don’t do that! You have to buy a good pasta. We’ll give you more money if you need it!”

Colin Firth came over for dinner tonight.

This man!

He needs someone like Lottie. She helps me remember the when, the where, and sometimes even the why of anything I’m doing.

For example, when I’m introduced to someone, I have a tendency to focus too much on their features (eyes, teeth, skin, nose, moles, hair, etc.), their voice, their clothing, their behavior, and then I instantly imagine them as children or at home eating, and then what their home looks like and how clean it is or isn’t, and then I imagine whether they have a spouse or a partner and what that person might look like and how they met and whether they’re affectionate with each other and happy together, whether they have children, and if they do, who puts the kids to bed, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then I forget just about every single word they’ve said.

It’s also the reason I never remember anyone’s name, only their face.

It is all happening too quickly, and I don’t like it. Every day they are changing, but you don’t see it until suddenly one moment you do. And then you feel like you missed something.

If we don’t have this physical/visual record to refer to, suddenly one day we’re shocked to find them bending down to kiss us goodbye.

I took it off the heat, stirred in a few knobs of cold butter and two handfuls of Parmigiano, covered it, and let it sit for a minute or two. This is what is known as “mantecato,” or the adding of fat, hence the butter and cheese.

But I’m not a car person. If I never got into one again it would be too soon, because quite simply, I can’t sit still for very long. I prefer train travel over car, boat, and certainly plane travel. I have no fear of flying, I just find it soul sucking. Boats are fine, on calm seas, because being on the water is like being in a new world. But ultimately, for me, travel is best by train. I can stretch my legs, pace the aisle, read a book, sketch, write, eat, go to the bar car, or just take in the scenery.

How nice it is to see young people who not only love what they do but are proud to be doing it.

At the push of a button, you could fill a glass and the bottle would automatically be resealed and potentially stay fresh for up to three weeks.

After checking in at Heathrow we headed for my favorite part of the flying process, security.