But sound is also clearly there, when you think of it, evoking emotions and memories. Hearing corn kernels pop takes me right back to being a little kid, while the sound of ice flying around inside a cocktail shaker takes me back to being a big kid. At home, day-to-day sounds are not just a vehicle for memories. They are the essence of the kitchen. Morning coffee percolating; toast popping up before butter is scraped all over it; kettle boiling; oil being heated, waiting for the sizzle, when onion or garlic hits the pan. These sounds are the roll call of some of our most beloved onomatopoeias: crackle, sizzle, pop, slurp. So strong is the association between the word and the sound it describes (and the texture it brings to mind) that sounds can be played around with (or manipulated, depending on how you look at it) to create a certain effect. Making the crunch of a potato chip louder and “crunchier” makes us think of the potato chip as fresher, more chiplike. The fizz when a carbonated drink can is opened is, I recently heard, made to sound louder than it needs to be, so strong is our association of this sound with bubbles, energy and fun.
It’s not only the sound of the food itself that we hear. It’s the chatter going on, the radio being played. The machines, the gadgets, the voices, these sounds are all part of the atmosphere, the theater — the life! — that take place in a kitchen. These, too, can be manipulated to affect our relationship with the food. As anyone who eats in restaurants knows, the music can have a huge impact on the meal. It isn’t just about whether we can hear ourselves talk, though. There’s all sorts of research into the way that listening to high-pitched music, for example, accentuates the sweetness of a dish, with low-pitched music bringing out savory or bitter notes.
My Proustian sound moment, which rooted me so much in fall, was somehow much quieter than this. It was emotional, mindful even. Once my sense of sound was so heightened, my other senses jostled in to complete the picture. The smell of the spices was somehow more pinelike and woody. The look of the orange slices of squash — layered with the dark green basil and spinach leaves — was so perfect for fall. The feel of the smooth béchamel being poured on just felt like the sort of cozy blanket we all want to be hiding under.
As I say, I was having a moment. Before long, of course, the kitchen was full of the kid’s version of sound, more pronounced, shall we say, than Proustian. I came to my senses and served the dish, but still, the sound of what felt like near-silence — dry leaves crackling on a crisp and fresh autumn day — stayed strongly, and quietly, with me.
Recipe: Butternut Squash Lasagna Pie
