The Spice Drawer
Over the past six months (leisurely) and in the past three weeks (intensely), I’ve cleaned out and packed up my entire house where I’ve been living for the past 10 years. I went through every bit and bob of what I owned and either:
- gave it away (fiddle leaf fig, grill, chairs, stuffed animals,1 blender, rugs)
- sold it (car, coffee table, lamp, iPad)
- put it into storage (art, mementos, chairs)
- took it with me (very little, mostly clothes & computing things)
Parting with my possessions was surprisingly easy. I’d been planning this move for a while now and had time to get used to the idea and say my farewells. And the concept of having a bunch of stuff, 95% of which I never used or thought about or even remembered owning, was really starting to make me itch. So out it went; I felt lighter with each thing that exited the house.
But I wasn’t expecting the spice drawer.
I was working my way through the kitchen when I opened the drawer with all of my spices and baking supplies. A pause. What do I do with these? I picked up a jar of smoked paprika and was suddenly flung back in time to 12 years ago. I remember exactly where I bought that paprika and why.
I’d recently moved into my own apartment after separating from my wife and was still trying to figure out how my new household was going to work. My kids came over a few times a week; what the hell were we going to eat for dinner? I was competent but not confident in the kitchen; Meg is a great cook and I couldn’t match her effort or output. I had to come up with my own meals that a) I could cook, b) the kids would actually eat, and c) were somewhat healthy.
One of the recipes I found was for smoky corn chowder, so I headed to the grocery store on 23rd St. to buy ingredients, including a jar of smoked paprika. The kids loved the corn chowder and it became a favorite of ours — something that they only ate over at Dad’s house.
Over the years, the kids and I amassed a small collection of recipes we loved and often had at my house — caldo verde, lasagne, buttermilk pancakes, taco salad, apple pie, and others — and the spices to cook them: oregano, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, basil, baking soda, Ortega Taco Seasoning Mix 😂. I pulled each spice container out of the drawer and tried to remember what I’d cooked with it, what dishes it was in that we’d eaten together. I opened the tops to sniff some of the spices and was more strongly pulled back into those times when my kids were small and I was worried — no, I was terrified — about not being up to the task of filling their tummies, minds, and souls with the good stuff on my watch.
Man, so much of our time together revolved around food. The spice drawer hit me hard because it was a powerful olfactory reminder not only of the delicious meals we’d shared but also of my insecurity around parenting, how I slowly gained confidence, and how I eventually found freedom & pride in what I was able to offer my kids.
In the end, I had to throw all the spices out — no takers for half-used, decade-old containers of parsley flakes or jars of cumin — but I’ll always remember cleaning out that drawer and all of the memories it stirred up. Proust had his madeleines, but I doubt I’ll ever pass by a jar of smoked paprika in the supermarket or in someone’s spice drawer without feeling all of it all over again.
I gave away a bunch of miscellaneous stuffed animals that my kids had accumulated over the years — not the beloved ones — and I was sitting working on my deck when a woman showed up to collect them. “Are you the stuffed animal guy?” she called to me. “Yes,” I said, “and I don’t think I’ve been referred to like that before.” In telling this story to others, she became “the stuffed animal lady”. Everything is relative. ↩
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One of the things I learned on a trip to Hungry is that paprika loses much of its flavor 6 months after opening. So, maybe get some new good stuff, open it, and let the memories flow.
Oh boy. This one got me. I have spices my father made before I was born. I could never part with them. I use them sparingly. We're all allowed to hoard something, okay? I can never smell Tampico Granulated Garlic and not think of my parents and our business, and how all of us smelled like it every day. Loved this story.
If you ask the other toys I bet some of those stuffed animals themselves are The Stuffed Animal Guy or The Stuffed Animal Lady.
So true! Thanks for sharing and being vulnerable. This sums up divorce right there. We try to find our way, and not seeing our kids every day was really tough and not what we had signed up for! The kitchen (and those spices) were what kept us all going. The pancakes, the familiar recipes, and the time together over meals made a big difference for me too. Thanks Jason.
That kinda made me tear up! Olfactory memory is highly underrated. What's so crazy about this time is that we're losing all our old traditions with the kids but then we'll start making new ones and that will be fun too. Maybe yours will be the kids coming to visit you all across the world!
Damn… more of these long-form emotional posts, please Jason. 👏👏👏Your blogging since traveling and personal stories have been engaging, enjoyable, and so relatable. Keep it up!
I read all of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time last year. My highest recommendation for all seven volumes of the Penguin Deluxe Classics translations.
It’s exquisite. And while the first volume (Swann’s Way) on its own is good, it is just the introduction to the epic.
I do caution that you shouldn’t read it until you are in your late-40s at least. You need to have lived your own life and have your own youth to look back on with fondness and regret to get the full effect.
My 21-year-old daughter just went to visit a friend, and took along a little ziplock of gochugaru because she wanted to cook this guy a favorite meal of ours, gochujang chicken. She said cooking in a strange kitchen was a challenge, and reported incredulously, “he didn’t have a kitchen knife. There was no soy sauce in his house!” We talked about how different families have varying experiences of food and the preparing of it, and about how difficult and expensive it is to outfit a kitchen at the start of something, which she knew about from her college experience. This evolved into a really nice conversation about how grateful she is that her mother and I raised her to appreciate food and the preparing of it, which led into other things she’s glad we equipped her with. That and your spice-drawer memory-lane post are making me a little verklempt.
Who's this guy!? Is he worthy of her gochugaru! Jk. My parents taught me how to cook. That, teaching us our language, and putting us first are the greatest gifts of my life. Congratulations on doing the same for your daughter. You're all wonderful parents.
LOL, to be gochugaru-worthy! I think a big appeal of it was passing on some education to someone she knew could use it. (She did say that she tested his limits.) She also said she the experience helped her appreciate how hard it was for us as parents when she was SUCH A PICKY eater as a kid. Live and learn.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Cheering you on (silently) in your next act!
Oh dear, this made me choke up. My daughter just moved out for college, 776 miles away, and I'm probably not going to cook her favorite Ellie Krieger's White Chili until she comes back for winter. I will avoid smelling the cumin lest I get even more morose.
On the positive side, that explains why the paprikash I made recently was so terrible - the paprika had to be almost 5 years old. It tasted like sawdust.
When my mother died, we had to purge her pantry and spice cabinet. Like you, we found specific jars of specific spices that recalled specific things. For some reason my siblings and I all found the ancient tin of McCormick cardboard like bay leaves that was at least 20 years old hilarious. Yet, like you, we ended up tossing a large volume of them because we either didn't need them or couldn't transport them. These days, I have a bay laurel tree in my yard and if I need one, I just go out and grab one right off the bush. I wish my mother could see that because I think she would find it amazing. I'm also reducing how much STUFF I have in the house and I look at my own pantry and spice cabinet and wonder who will have to deal with some of the arcane and esoteric items I have collected as a chef and caterer.
When my partner and I split a year and a half ago, losing the kitchen items and various spices was one of the hardest blows. Outfitting a new kitchen takes time and it happens organically as your needs require. I still only have a handful of spices and remember fondly the packed drawer of spices I used to have at my beck and call for cooking. I still need to get a food processor and a solid bread knife.
May I suggest an Opinel Parallèle No.116 Bread Knife. Great value and is a match for even the toughest sourdough.
This touches me so much, Jason. I know exactly what you mean. My husband—the champion chef and grocery shopper in our household—died suddenly two years ago. We have two drawers in the kitchen full of spices, mostly those he collected for us. There are boxes downstairs of dried peppers and extra spices for his bbq and other experiments. Among other things, he could make the most amazing pulled pork and from-scratch pastrami. These spices all bring such intense, wonderful memories, and they break me when I look at them or sniff them. I use tiny bits here and there. It's hard, but also a connection. You have done wonderful things for your kids, and you are doing a brave and wonderful thing now. May there be many more incredible spices and food adventures ahead of you.
Such a beautiful story. I'm so glad you have such nice memories. It's amazing how touching these stories are. Spices are so special.
I was a Foreign Service Officer with USAID before getting DOGE'd in 2025. For 17 years, my family and I moved to a new country every few years. Your experience of jettisoning possessions slowly and then urgently, the powerful memories attached to mundane stuff, and being nervously excited about the coming years in a bunch of unknown places is all so profoundly resonant. This might overtake a shared love of NHL 94 as the central element of our parasocial relationship.
Thanks for sharing this Jason. It's cool what a little jar of spices can mean.
It’s stunning how much memory is tied to triggers like these, these small components that make up strong resonant things.
I once heard a possibly apocryphal story about Warhol. That each year he changed his scent, and at the end of the year would place the colognes and perfumes in a box with each of them labeled by year. Later, when he needed a certain pang of inspiration, he would pull out the box and smell previous years.
It sounds like you're doing a similar thing with spices, and that's a beautiful thing. Thanks for sharing the story, Jason.
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