There are dishes I love deeply—intimately—that I absolutely refuse to eat year-round.
Not because I can’t.
Because I shouldn’t.
Some foods need anticipation the way good stories need pacing. They only work when there’s been a little absence, a little longing, maybe even a mild emotional drought beforehand. You don’t binge them. You wait. You behave. Then you indulge.
Think about it. Certain meals taste like a calendar reminder went off in your soul.
New Year’s traditions. Holiday-only sauces. That one dish that only shows up when the weather turns mean and the daylight clocks out early. You could make them in July, sure—but they’d taste… wrong. Flat. Like hearing a Christmas song at a gas station in April. Technically fine. Spiritually criminal.
What you’re really tasting isn’t just the food.
It’s context.
Memory. Cold air. A specific table. A specific night. Maybe a specific person hovering nearby pretending not to micromanage. The dish becomes a time capsule, and the waiting is part of the seasoning.
We’ve gotten weirdly obsessed with unlimited access—everything, all the time, instantly. But flavor doesn’t always want convenience. Sometimes it wants restraint. Sometimes it wants to be missed.
So I let certain dishes live on the shelf. I don’t rush them. I don’t force them into the off-season. When they come back around, they hit harder. Deeper. Like they remember me too.
Some things are better when they’re occasional.
Food included.
And honestly?
So are people.
If you know, you know.
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