The question to thank or not to thank

I am working on a new book, tentatively called “Dinners With Friends,” about memorable meals in my past.

After writing about all the obvious and unobvious ways to starve in my last book, “The Body Tourist,” I thought it would be a nice change of pace to write about all the obvious and unobvious ways to feast. To that end, I’ve been thinking about meals I’ve had with various people that made an impact, less because of the food (though in some cases what we ate was notable) and more because of the connection.

One of those memorable meals centered on a dish I came to call Photographer’s Wife Stew. A woman I barely knew, the wife of a photographer friend, made a simple dinner out of onions sautéed with garlic and olive oil, to which she added tomatoes, chickpeas, kale and a splash of wine. What was momentous about this meal was not the complexity of the flavors (it was delicious but hardly sensational) but the understanding it brought me about the intersection of friendship and food: Namely, that a few ordinary ingredients and a few interesting people are all that’s needed to create a memorable dinner party. This information I would carry forward into a lifetime of entertaining.

Also in the book is a meal made memorable not by what I ate but by the fact that I ate. This meal took place when I was barely 20 years old and a counseling intern on the alcohol and drug unit of Georgia Regional Hospital in Atlanta. I was newly released from treatment for anorexia, and although I was recovering, I was still quite ill. One day a counselor on the unit named Stuart, on whom I had a massive crush, invited me out to lunch.

“It’ll be fun,” he said. But I knew differently. I hadn’t eaten a normal lunch in years and no longer even knew how. I was terrified of going and had no idea what I would do when I actually got to the restaurant. But because I loved Stuart and would have accompanied him anywhere, I agreed to go.

Once at the deli, staring down a massive pile-up of turkey afloat on a fat raft of rye bread, my terror intensified. I fought back tears. I wanted to bolt but couldn’t. Instead, while Stuart ate, I pretended to be too distracted by the comings and goings of other diners to notice my food.

But Stuart was watching. After several minutes, he put down his sandwich, leaned in across the table and put his hand on my arm. When I met his eyes, he said simply, “Go ahead.” That’s it. Just go ahead, which sounded like, “You’re safe with me,” and also like, “It’s time to stop the madness.”

What happened after that was as simple as it was complex: I ate the sandwich, which broke down an emotional wall that had been in place for years, which in turn broke down other walls, and my recovery took a giant step forward. Nothing romantic came of the lunch date, and when my internship came to an end I left and never saw Stuart again.

I never thanked Stuart for moving me forward in my recovery. I never thanked the photographer’s wife for teaching me the secret behind the best kind of dinner party.

Which makes me wonder, to those to whom we owe a debt of gratitude, should we do more than cradle them in fond memory?

Last evening at my supper club, we discussed teachers who made a lasting impact on us. There were those who encouraged nascent interests in math and science, and those who, like my seventh-grade teacher, encouraged an interest in writing. As we went around the table, I wondered again about this question of gratitude, whether it is enough to be grateful or whether, as with love, gratitude demands action. Does a thank-you three decades overdue warm a heart, or does it, in reminding of a faraway youth, unsettle some unknowable balance?

I don’t know. And because I don’t know, I stay silently appreciative.