You would not think, perhaps, that a packet of crisps might cement a friendship but over the past four years I’ve been trying to unravel the role food and drink play in all our relationships. I’ve spoken to psychologists, anthropologists and food historians, and I’ve observed my own relationships through food to the people I love.
What’s come of it — besides my new book, Hungry Heart — is that I’ve found our identities as groups or pairs are often forged by the food and drink we all like: my friend Lauren and I always go for noodles; the “Moonwalkers” — I promise I didn’t name the WhatsApp group — can’t meet without Pringles and my university girl pals will default to rosé, even in winter. The aphorism “you are what you eat” is as true of our relationships as it is of ourselves.
There is a closeness that comes with what we share; take the crisps, which offer not just pint-steadying sustenance but a ritual. The pulling at the back seam of a packet, the slow reveal of a shiny, silver sharing plate, the golden flakes fanning out: there is nothing dignified or hygienic in six different hands scrabbling around a crisp packet, or fighting each other’s salt-flecked fingers for the crunchiest, knobbliest shards, but there is something intimate in that moment.
Sharing food connects us more closely than (almost) any other activity. As anthropologist Martin Jones observed in his seminal tome Feast: “The sharing of food brings people once again to the intimate interconnection between social person and biological organism”.In other words, by splitting a packet of crisps, taking a few and gesturing to the rest of the table, we acknowledge our own humanness and that of everyone else.It is not just crisps, of course. Recalling the microwaved scrambled eggs rustled up by my newly single dad, I saw how one dish can define a moment in time; and how another — my stepmum’s homemade rice pudding — can usher in a new era.
That rice pudding, together with her lentil casserole and fish pie, were the medium through which my brother, dad, stepbrothers, stepmother and I became family. What we lacked in shared genetic material, we made up for in shared meals and memories.We all know we do not need crisps, we simply want them. But sharing them with other people signals not just appetite, but trust in their cleanliness, and a willingness to give way to temptation. To share is affectionate; to share is loving.
“Oh, go on then,” comes the grin, as we reach for the last flecks with. A few beers might make bring you close to anyone for an evening, but a packet of crisps seals the deal.
