On Joy (and Farmers Markets)

In the never-ending cascade of emotions that we cycle through on a daily basis, I'm reminding myself to make space for little shots of pure happiness

This one is for Jesse, whom I met over bagels and smoked sturgeon in New York City a few weeks ago. We were talking about writing, of course. (What else?) It’s hard to write humour, I said, referring to a book he had just finished editing. And it’s hard to write sex, I added, building a list of the things I “can't do.”

“It’s hard to write joy,” Jesse said, smiling at me. It was a compliment — a big one — because Jesse had read the pages of my book, How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love and Plenty (due out Jan 21, 2025) and books are what he does.

I don’t know when I got in the habit of rationing my joy. Tamping it down. Feeling waves of happiness but at the same time, looking for something to offset that happiness. Like: It’s a beautiful day, the weather is perfect, but tomorrow it’s going to rain. Like: Everything feels right with me for a moment, but there are terrible things happening in the world. Like: For a second, my heart feels light and soaring, but it shouldn’t, it just isn’t proper, and I have to stop it. What I do know is that having a parent who has lived through a catastrophe can creep up on you at strange times, adding a certain heaviness, no matter how much you don’t want it to.

After New York City, I came home and thought about that conversation with Jesse. My book is about many things — the legacy of the Holocaust that lives inside me, the punishment of chef school, the painful search for self — but despite all those trials and struggles, Jesse had picked up on a counterpoint I’d woven into the story: joy and the capacity for it I learned from my father, a ninety-three-year old survivor, a pleasure seeker, a lover of life. A person who understands, better than anyone, that life is a gift and a miracle and something to be celebrated every damn day.

That’s what he’d like me to do — celebrate every damn day. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes I fail. For most of us, it’s not possible to walk around happy all the time, and believe me when I say I understand sadness and anxiety and depression. Clearly, there is a lot wrong in the world, a lot to grieve over. I also know that people can be suspicious of joy, and that for women, especially, too much obvious joy can lead to being dismissed as unserious. (Just ask Kamala.)

But. It’s been a wonderful summer, a summer in which I’ve been lucky to visit beautiful places and connect with amazing people. Even now, as I write this, I’m in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the ocean. Two days ago, I walked to the farmers market, one of my happiest places on earth. On my way back to the hotel, loaded down with tomatoes and four kinds of plums, dates and fresh ginger, I felt one of those hits of pure joy and, hard on its heels, a familiar guilt and an urge to mitigate my happiness, to push down my pleasure.

Instead, I set down my packages on the sidewalk and put on my headphones. I turned up the song real loud. (“Human” by the Killers, if you’re wondering.) And do you know what I did? Standing there on 3rd Street, half a block from Wilshire, I danced. I jumped my fifty-seven-year-old body up and down like a little kid. I laughed like a hyena. I cannot remember the last time I let myself do anything so silly and unbridled. (Not that anyone minded. This is LA.) God it was glorious.

Then I came back to my hotel room, which has a little kitchen, and made a plum salad with olives and celery. A little olive oil and a little sea salt. A hit of white wine vinegar. A big dose of joy.

Are we human? Or are we dancer? Brandon Flowers asks. I would venture that we are both.