“So, does this count as a feast?” Alex asked, carefully stripping the fragrant thyme leaves from their stems. “I mean, what makes it a feast?”
I thought about this for a moment, surprised that I didn’t have a clear answer. “I guess it’s a feast when I want it to be one. Yea, this could be a feast . . . I mean, why not?”
Yet I continued mulling over this question; what does make a feast? In these last few months I have consciously created many feasts. Some have been larger, such as the epic meal last weekend or the birthday party for my dad. Others have been composed of simpler food eaten among only a few friends. And then there have been plenty of meals that I have chosen not to rank among my official feasts. Why have these been excluded? They were variously too boring, rushed, small, or insignificant. What they all have in common, however, is that they were not premeditated in the same way as a true feast.
For an answer to Alex’s question I turned first to various official definitions of a feast. Wandering around the gargantuan virtual library of description and delineation, I found several themes crystallize: the word feast collects around it the garments of cuisine and culture, religion and ritual, ceremony and celebration, abundance and enjoyment.
My favorite definition, one among several from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, describes a feast as “something that gives unusual or abundant enjoyment.” I also liked the Cambridge dictionary’s explanation of “a very enjoyable experience for the senses.” The word itself comes from the Latin festus, meaning “joyous.” Pleasure is at the heart of feasting, firmly rooted in its very etymological heritage.
In having to explicitly define feast for myself and this project, I have realized that it is this celebratory intention that characterizes my feasts. On the one hand it is clearly a hedonistic pleasure—people coming together for the sole purpose of gastronomic enjoyment—and I wholeheartedly accept that. On the other hand it is also a defiant statement, a quiet rejection of the forces that would have us speed up our lives, scuttling faster and faster around the hamster wheels of frenetic daily activity with such puritanical zeal that we have no time for friends, feasting, or any of those other proverbial simple pleasures. So really, any meal has the potential to be a feast. And that is my ultimate goal: I don’t just want to cook, host, and enjoy feasts; I want to embody a feasting mentality, an attitude of abundance, and a propensity to celebrate whenever given half a chance and a cork screw.
I lifted the pot of mussels off the heat and stirred in a large spoonful of crème fraiche. We sat down to eat: the seafood aromatic with herbs, garlic, and wine. The wedges of roasted potato fat and well browned, a light fluffy center encased in a fine crisp shell. They were ideal for sopping up the sauce. We sat around the table eating, drinking and talking. “Awww, I wish I hadn’t eaten,” Justin lamented, his hand edging towards the tray of oven fries. “Oh, go on,” Alex prompted, “there’s plenty.” The dollop of mustard I’d added to my plate slid downwards and dissolved into the sauce, accidentally improving it I noticed, plucking another mussel from its shell and popping it into my mouth. I took a sip of cold white wine. Alex returned to the plate of smoked salmon. Justin caved in to the temptation of pommes frites. Yes, I concluded to myself, this is definitely a feast.
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