A Study in Abundance

Whole Foods has this great gnocchi. I mean it's wonderful. They're little spinach stuffed pillows of delight and every time I go in I look for them in the freezer section. The product is made by a small local store, so it's not always available, but when it is I buy as many bags as I can. For a long time now though, I have not been able to find them. Not at the Ashland store or the one on Huron, nor at North Avenue, not even in Evanston. I started getting worried.

Food is a big thing for me. Perhaps it's my ethnic background. You can't really be Italian and Mexican and Spanish (with some Cuban and French thrown in there) and not love food. And it's not the eating of it only, it's also in the shopping, finding what catches the eye. And in the contemplation of what to do with that gorgeous eggplant you picked up, elegant and purple and bright. And then there's the preparation itself. To me, it's a creative expression of love.

But there's always been a hoarding aspect to it as well. I'm one of those people with a bulging refrigerator. I am uncomfortable if I ever get down to one head of garlic. Okay, I'm uncomfortable if I ever get down to two. It might have to do that when my sister and I were younger, my mother always saved the "last" of anything for my father (he had no idea and probably would have been mortified to have found out). Perhaps it represented a lack of control to experience pleasure whenever we wanted. When you're kids in the suburbs, you're reliant on your parents to provide just about everything. When the family went to Sears to pick up our catalog order we would stop at the candy and nut department and my father would buy us chocolate covered raisins and pistachios and sesame seeds and beef jerky. My sister and I were in heaven. We would put it all on a wicker tray and hide it in a very special place and ration it as if we were in a refuge camp. We wanted to make it last.

And so this strange habit, instilled in me since childhood is what sometimes makes me have to throw out the last of the venison jerky because I've kept the final piece looooong after its expiration date (didn't think jerky could go bad, did you?). Sometimes, it's more waste and false sense of security than anything else. Food, as all things is meant to be experienced and enjoyed. So, the other night, in the spirit of breaking free of old patterns, I nervously made the last bag of stuffed gnocchi. I prepared it with a wild mushroom ragout and served it with crusty bruschetta, started dinner with steamed artichokes and my boyfriend and I ate outside while drinking champagne. He, of course, didn't know it was the last bag. He would have noted the moment but only briefly and then moved on. I served so much food that evening that I actually had a little left over. I ate it for lunch yesterday afternoon.

And I enjoyed it. Every bite. And for some strange reason, didn't get all choked up about it being the last bag. I let it go. Later that afternoon, I went to Whole Foods to buy lamb. I was going to try my hand at Indian curry and out of habit (although I almost forgot) I went to the frozen section and checked for the gnocchi, even though I hadn't seen it for months. And there it was, nestled next to the artichoke ravioli. I was stunned for a moment and then in my mind flashed the reinforcement of letting go, of ridding myself of what no longer serves me, of truly believing in a life of abundance. All through a sack of spinach stuffed gnocchi. There were ten bags. I wanted to take them all. I bought three.