Unquiet
Things

My two favorite comfort spots as a child: tucked in a corner with a book, or in the kitchen at my grandmother’s knee. Both places taught me to love the slow unfolding of stories – whether they came from mixing bowls or printed pages. Maybe that’s why I find myself lingering over scenes of characters eating. A flaky crust or the smell of burnt sugar can transport you more surely than any map. What characters eat, how they eat it, who they share it with – these details tell us everything about their world.

As I grew older, I realized something curious: while other readers might have dog-eared the romantic scenes in novels, I was the one impatiently flipping past them to get back to the detailed descriptions of gathering herbs or preparing meals. Even in the notoriously salacious Clan of the Cave Bear, I cared more about Ayla’s medicinal plants than her spicy cave encounters. Maybe because food scenes revealed something more intimate – not just how characters fed their bodies, but how they nourished their souls and connections to others. Plus, I was a constantly hungry child. My mother had me counting calories from age five. I ate vicariously through these characters, savoring every detailed description of their meals, while secretly stuffing saltines and oyster crackers into my pockets – not always from hunger, but often from spite, claiming these small crunchy acts of rebellion. Even now, I can’t read without something to crunch between pages.

The Boxcar Children showed me first what food could mean beyond hunger. Four siblings with nothing but each other, turning an abandoned train car into home. I envied their freedom to eat what they found, when they found it. Every small victory mattered: a cup cut from a tin can, milk kept cool in a stream, wild blueberries gathered in a fresh bucket. Each meal became an act of love and defiance – we can make this work, we can stay together, we can turn nothing into something.

In Little House on the Prairie, each meal was a triumph I could taste in secret: stewed jackrabbit with white-flour dumplings and gravy, steaming cornbread flavored with bacon fat, and molasses to pour over top. No one counted Laura’s calories. Karana in Island of the Blue Dolphins followed the same patient rhythm of survival: abalone pried from rocks, fish caught in tidal pools, roots dug from the earth with improvised tools. These girls ate to live, and lived fully.

In The Secret Garden, I found a different kind of mirror. While Mary transforms from sallow to vibrant, I was being taught to wish for the opposite. My mother’s voice suggested that thin and pale was preferable to rosy-cheeked and sturdy. Still, I devoured the descriptions: warm milk, homemade cottage bread slathered with raspberry jam, buttered crumpets, currant buns. As the garden comes alive, so do the children who tend it, nourished by Susan Sowerby’s hearty oatcakes and fresh milk brought for picnics among the roses. They eat without anyone watching, measuring, counting.

On dark and stormy nights in A Wrinkle in Time, the Murray kitchen glows with love and warm milk for cocoa. Charles Wallace, wise beyond his five years, makes liverwurst-and-cream-cheese sandwiches while his sister Meg gets her one precious tomato with her mother’s blessing. Here was another kind of hunger being fed – not just for midnight snacks, but for unconditional love served up with hot chocolate and understanding. A mother who could say of her last tomato, “To what better use could it be put?” than feeding her child’s happiness. That liverwurst sandwich, by the way, became such an indelible detail that years later, when I was interviewed about the Wrinkle in Time cover art saga, it was the only thing I could recall from the entire story!

The Wind in the Willows packed picnic baskets of pure imagination: a yard of French bread, sausage fragrant with garlic, cheese that “lay down and cried,” and bottled sunshine from Southern slopes. In Heidi’s world, simple meals became feasts: toasted cheese and fresh goat’s milk in her grandfather’s alpine cabin, tasting of freedom and mountain air. In Harriet The Spy, Harriet M. Welsch’s tomato sandwich appeared like clockwork, made the same way every day by her nanny Ole Golly (white bread, ripe tomatoes, mayo, and though I’d add salt and pepper, I doubt Harriet would approve).

When my mother was monitoring every bite, allowing only Weight Watchers-approved foods and endless bowls of undressed salad, I found myself drawn to the strange, exotic foods in books: Edmund’s Turkish Delight in Narnia, the pickled limes Amy March coveted at school. I had no idea what these things actually tasted like, which made them perfect for fantasizing. They existed purely in my imagination, where no one could measure their calories or deem them forbidden. No Weight Watchers points chart in the world could calculate the value of magical sugar covered in snow, or the tart sweetness of pickled citrus traded like contraband between schoolgirls.

And speaking of fantasy feasts, the dwarves raid Bilbo’s pantry with a gleeful abandon I recognized in my own hidden snacking: seed-cakes vanishing, buttered scones disappearing with raspberry jam and apple-tart, followed by mince-pies, cheese, pork-pie and salad. Then more cakes, ale, coffee, eggs, cold chicken and pickles. The Redwall books fed these fantasies – deeper’n’ever pies, greensap milk, meadowcream pudding, hot cornbread studded with hazelnuts and apple. Between crackers crushed in my pockets, I devoured these imaginary feasts.

In Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, a plate appears loaded with Southern comfort: fried chicken, black-eyed peas, turnip greens, cornbread, and those titular tomatoes. The chocolatier in Chocolat reads her customers through their cravings. In Like Water for Chocolate, a single chile in walnut sauce captures all possible flavors: sweet as candied citron, juicy as pomegranate, hot with pepper, subtle with nuts.

But food can speak of darker things too. The Secret History’s feast spins out of control – soups, lobsters, pâtés, mousses blur together with Tattinger champagne and brandy until the room tilts with excess and abandon. In Castle Dracula, Jonathan Harker’s journal opens not with terror but with dinner – an “excellent roast chicken” served by his gracious host. And in Rebecca, the narrator torments herself remembering teatime at Manderley: dripping crumpets, crisp toast wedges, mysterious sandwiches, that special gingerbread, and angel cake that melted in the mouth. These are meals haunted by what comes after.

I actually started writing this piece seven years ago, just a simple list of meals from books. But, like the best stories about food, it was never really about the food at all. It was about hunger and love and what happens when those things get tangled together, about mothers and daughters and all the ways we learn to feed ourselves when no one else will.

Yet it’s not these haunted meals or desperate hungers I want to carry forward. What I want now is to nourish what was starved. I imagine setting a table for my younger self, covering every inch with the food of these beloved books: warm cottage bread fresh from the oven, slathered with sweet butter and honey, piled with slices of ripe tomatoes and sprinkled with salt. Crumpets dripping with melted butter, currant buns still steaming, seed-cakes and apple tarts and mince pies. A tureen of rabbit stew with dumplings, cornbread flavored with bacon fat, blueberries gathered by small determined hands. Hot oatcakes wrapped in clean napkins, brought by a mother who knew how to feed children’s souls as well as their bodies. I’d tell that hungry, hiding girl that she can eat until she’s satisfied, that there’s no need to count or measure or feel shame, that the crumbs in her pockets were not crimes but survival. And maybe I’d set a place for my mother too, hoping we could both finally taste something sweeter than fear – forgiveness, served in portions large enough to fill all our empty spaces.

Next month marks eleven years since she died. My body remembers before my mind does. It asks for comfort reads and crackers in corners. The old familiar hungers, the slow work of healing.

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