Stir Quotes

“Food has powers. It picks us up from our lonely corners and sits us back down, together. It pulls us out of ourselves, to the kitchen, to the table, to the diner down the block. At the same time, it draws us inward. Food is the keeper of our memories, connecting us with our pasts and with our people.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Being sick is supposed to come along with grand realizations about What Really Matters, but I don't know. I think deep down, we're already aware of what's important and what's not. Which isn't to say that we always live our lives accordingly. We snap at our spouses and curse the traffic and miss the buds pushing up from the ground. But we know. We just forget to know sometimes.

Near-death forces us to remember. It pushes us into a state of aggressive gratitude that throws what's big and what's small into the sharpest relief. It's awfully hard to worry about the puddle of milk when you're just glad to be here to spill it.

Aggressive gratitude, though, is no way to live. It's too easy. We're meant to work at these things. To strive to know. Our task is to seek out what's essential, get distracted by the fluff, and still know, feel annoyed by annoyances, and find our way back. The so-called small stuff actually matters very much. It's what we push against on our way to figuring out how much we wish to think and be. We need that dialectic, and illness snatches it away. A stubbed toe, a too-long line at the post office, these things and the fluster they bring are signifiers of a healthy life, and I craved them.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Everything happens for a reason? I don't see it that way at all. To me, only the first part is clear: Everything happens. Then other things happen, and other things, still. Out of each of these moments, we make something. Any number of somethings, in fact.

What comes of our own actions becomes the "reason." It is no predestined thing. We may arrive where we are by way of a specific path—we can take just one at a time—but it's never the only one that could have led us to our destination. Nor does a single event, even a string of them, point decisively to a single landing spot. There are infinite possible versions of our lives. Meaning is not what happens, but what we do with what happens when it does.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“The so-called small stuff actually matters very much.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Rosemary died when I was six, and when my parents told me, I cried. I wasn’t sure if I had a right to, but I think now of something the British chef Nigel Slater once wrote, that it is “impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.” I think the same can be said of the person who scoops your ice cream into a dish and stands, smiling, as you eat.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Meaning is not what happens, but what you do with what happens.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Food—like art, like music— brings people together, it’s true. It begins, though, with a private experience, a single person stirred, moved, and wanting company in that altered stated. So we say, “You have to taste this.” We say, “Please, take a bite.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Being sick is supposed to come along with grand realizations about What Really Matters, but I don’t know. I think deep down, we’re already aware of what’s important and what’s not. Which isn’t to say that we always live our lives accordingly.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“It is a pleasure not only to taste, but to have taste, to feel our preferences exert themselves. It feels good to know what we like, because that’s what we know who we are.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“The phrase “gracious host” rolls off the tongue. We all know what it is to be one. What it means to guest with grace is trickier, because it’s not what it might seem. A good guest, we think, is an easy guest. A considerate one. She arrives on time with a bottle of wine or maybe a gift, some chocolate or homemade jam. She asks what she can do. She wants to help. She insists. What these best of intentions miss is the most basic thing of all: that a good guest allows herself to be hosted. That means saying, “yes, please,” when you’re offered a cup of tea, instead of rushing to get it yourself. It means staying in your chair, enjoying good company and your first glass of wine while your host ladles soup into bowls. If your host wants to dress the salad herself and toss it the way she knows how, let her, because a host is delighted to serve. To allow her to take care of you is to allow your host her generosity. I’d always been too distracted by my own desire to be useful to understand this. I got it now.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Everything happens for a reason.” People said it to me all the time. I know they meant to comfort; the words that followed usually had something to do with the good to be found in everything, or my “path” and how the meaning of my illness would one day be clear. I’d feel my chest tighten every time and do my best not to roll my eyes. Everything happens for a reason? I don’t see it that way at all. To me, only the first part is clear: Everything happens. Then other things happen, and other things, still. Out of each of these moments, we make something. Any number of somethings, in fact. What comes of our own actions becomes the “reason.” It is no predestined thing. We may arrive where we are by way of a specific path—we can take just one at a time—but it’s never the only one that could have led to our destination. Nor does a single event, even a string of them, point decisively to a single landing spot. There are infinite possible versions of our lives. Meaning is not what happens, but what we do with what happens when it does. “I don’t know why it happened,” I said. “Um . . . do you?”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“To trust in your own aliveness, in your own ability to sustain and be sustained - there are times when there is no greater act of defiance.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“When I visit someplace new my favorite thing to do is eat...and walk, preferable to a place where I can eat some more.”
― jessica fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“1 tablespoon flaked sea salt, like Maldon 2 pieces of salmon fillet with skin on, ⅓ pound each Olive oil Freshly ground black pepper and lemon wedges, for serving Scatter the salt evenly over a dry, well-seasoned 10-inch cast-iron pan. A stainless steel pan will also work. If you’re using a stainless steel pan instead of cast iron, brush the pan lightly with oil before adding the salt. Place the pan over medium-high heat for 3 minutes. While the pan heats, dry the fish fillets well with paper towels and lay them flat on a large plate. Brush with olive oil on both sides. Place the fish into the hot pan, skin side down. Turn the heat down slightly if the crackle sounds too loud and sputtery. Cover with a lid. If you don’t have a lid that fits your pan, a metal baking sheet will do the job. Cook without moving the fillets for 3 to 5 minutes, until the skin is brown and crisp, and releases easily from the pan. Flip the fillets and cook them uncovered for another 2 to 4 minutes, depending on their thickness. The fish is done when the flesh deep inside is still faintly translucent and the internal temperature reads 125 degrees. Serve with freshly ground black pepper and lemon wedges. Serves 2.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Being sick is like walking around with a microscope strapped to your face at all times with your own body squished beneath the slide. You don't look away, at first because you can't—you're too sick—and then because you're afraid that if you do, you might miss a symptom or a sign and die.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“There are no available statistics on how many people die each year while baking an apple pie, and I’d like to believe that it’s because you can’t. When you’re cooking, you’re alive. You’ve got no choice. To fry an egg is to operate with the perfect faith that you will sit down and eat it.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“The English words "guest" and "host" live in opposing camps: the inviter and the invitee; the welcomer and the welcomed; the provider and the provided for. In other languages, there is no such divide, The French hôte means host and guest. Context assigns the meaning. That night, I was both.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Being sick is supposed to come along with grand realizations about What Really Matters, but I don't know. I think deep down, we're already aware of what's important and what's not. Which isn't to say that we always live our lives accordingly. We snap at our spouses and curses the traffic and miss the buds pushing up from the ground. But we know. We just forget to know sometimes.

Near-death forces us to remember. It pushes us into a state of aggressive gratitude that throws what's big and what's small into the sharpest relief. It's awfully hard to worry about the puddle of milk when you're just glad to be here to spill it.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Say more, say better”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home

“Eli knew stuff about buildings and architecture and the history of squatters’ rights. In fact, he seemed to know something about everything. He didn’t lecture or flaunt. Rather, it was as though his whole life he’d been quietly gathering treasures. Little nuggets and gems of things he had heard or seen or read, and he was just uncurling his fingers to share them.”
― Jessica Fechtor, Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals That Brought Me Home