Chasing Pleasure in Portugal

Called across the sea, a consummate host considers herself and her true calling

You probably know a woman (or more likely, several) who can’t relax when you invite them over—they are always offering to bring something, to help serve or wash dishes. They can’t sit too long, uncomfortable without a task. These women have internalized the notion that this is simply what it means to be an acceptable guest or member of society: to make sure our presence is not a burden, to earn or justify our enjoyment.

I am often this woman—much more often than I’d like. As the founder of a culinary event company in Nashville, Juniper Green, I am usually on the side of hosting, helping to orchestrate beautiful moments in other people’s lives. Under the right circumstances, it actually brings me enormous joy and a sense of purpose. In the best cases, I can follow my intuition, gain the trust of my clients and their guests, and help create what one of my touchstones in this industry, Priya Parker, calls “a temporary alternative world.” Whether personally or professionally, I never feel more accomplished as a host than when I can coax a guest into relaxing into themselves, feeling present in their bodies, and allowing me to pour into them. I watch their shoulders loosen, their smiles widen, their eyes close when they take a bite of something delicious. Every time I can derive such satisfaction from taking care of another person, I am reminded that perhaps another person could feel that way when taking care of me, or that perhaps I could derive satisfaction from taking care of myself.

About a year ago, my very dear friend Wendy called me to join her across the sea to celebrate a milestone birthday with her. She had undergone treatment for cancer and she was turning 40, a confluence of circumstances that afforded her a rare opportunity to ask for what she
really wanted without equivocation, and for everyone close to her to say, “Well, of course, anything she wants.” She sent out a link to one of the most beautiful houses I had ever seen, and said, “My birthday wish is to spend uninterrupted time with you, my people, in Portugal. I rented this house for us. Everything else will come together later.” The boldness and clarity of this statement absolutely knocked me out. I distinctly remember thinking, “You can just…do that?” The previous year hadn’t been the easiest on me either, though it was one that seemed fine on paper. One where everyone says, “You’re killing it!” at cocktail parties but you just leave feeling lonely. After a long series of small compromises and sensible pivots, I had lost sight of myself completely. I couldn’t remember what I loved about food as an art form, about hospitality as a means of expression. I no longer felt connected to my gut.

But my girl was calling me across the sea. She wanted us all to remember what it means to really live in the time we’re allotted. She claimed space for her own wants—and showed me that I could do the same. I decided the best way to honor her generosity (and myself) was to be really present, to pay attention, to notice all the beautiful details. To savor all the pleasures of the environment she had chosen. What follows is a very incomplete list of those pleasures.

The lump in my throat on seeing the house in person—the view from the hilltop we were on all the way to the water, with flowers exploding out of every nook and cranny.

The most perfect fried eggs plus strong coffee that a friend made for me on arrival at the house. I ate it outside in the sun with crusty bread.
My first solo dip in the pool. I remembered how much I loved swimming as a kid, and focused on all the ways the water could feel on my skin: swimming fast and slow, splashing, floating, kicking little puddles back into the pool. Walking through the gardens and orchard behind the house, harvesting produce for dinner in my wet bathing suit and beach towel. Pomelos the size of my head, pomegranates picked right off the tree, perfect cherry tomatoes, torpedo onions, and miles of nasturtium. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to make. I just knew it was going to be very special, and I couldn’t wait to feed my friends.

At the supermarket in Melides, I saw a woman who looked like she had been cooking for a big rowdy family for decades. She wore a crisp gingham dress, opaque pantyhose under sturdy heeled sandals, and a white bouffant hairdo. She hummed songs I didn’t recognize while she shopped, and greeted everyone like she was the mayor. I followed her through the store, observing her like a tropical fish, and purchased everything she did: cured meats, goats milk sliced sandwich cheese, flaky pastries, and (be still my heart), passion fruit curd.

The sounds everyone made as they started eating the first meal I cooked there. There were 16 people in the house, some of whom I had known for almost 20 years, some of whom I was meeting for the first time. The birthday girl called me a “white witch,” which I would like to
have on an apron.

Watching my darling girl drive a convertible Fiat to the beach, her newly short hair dancing in the wind, listening to a playlist she had curated for the occasion. I don’t think I have ever seen her look more beautiful, or more herself.

Passion. Fruit. Curd.

The warm pastel de nata and espresso my Uber driver bought for me on the way to the airport. I mentioned as my one regret that I hadn’t had any time in Lisbon to get one and he said, “Ah! I know the perfect place; you still have time.” He came inside, ordered for me, and insisted
on paying because he couldn’t let me leave his country without that delicacy. While I ate, he told me about his sons, his face beaming with pride.

But my favorite thing of all was watching Wendy make a home for us all on the other side of the world. The luxury was not in the house or the food, but in how thoughtfully she planned for our pleasure and connection. We are all a collection of stories and moments that define who we are to each other. She had been reminded that those moments are not at all guaranteed, so they must be made. She reminded me that this is the work I am meant for.

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