I’ve been homesick throughout my life plenty of times. The first that I can distinctly remember was at a sleepover in lower school, probably around first grade; at bedtime, I dissolved into tears and begged to have my parents pick me up. I wasn’t inherently afraid of being away; in fact, I’ve always relished the adventure of being someplace new, even when it meant setting out entirely on my own. But in all the near and far-flung places I went—summers building trails in New Hampshire or teaching environmental education on Block Island, two months of camp on the shores of Lake Morey in Vermont, a semester studying in South Africa, a string of weeks traipsing around Barcelona and northern Spain, field hockey camps and lacrosse camps and weekends away and even college itself—I’ve always missed home to varying degrees, regardless of how wildly good of a time I was having.
Being homesick—on some deep and fundamental level—is something I’ll always carry around with me. It makes sense. It’s a known quantity, emotionally-speaking.
But have you ever been placesick? When I’m homesick, I miss my parents and my sisters and the cozy nearness of them. I miss being in the same house and the casual comfort of hugging when we pass in the kitchen and walking up the lane to get the mail and sitting down to dinner together.
But placesick. I get placesick for London in the fall, the leaves ablaze above the green lawns of Hyde Park, the air snappingly crisp, the curving streets lined with gray stone buildings, interrupted here and there by jaunty-looking pubs, their facades hung with flowerpots, spilling over with pink camellias and yellow tulips and trailing ferns.
Sometimes I’m placesick for Martha’s Vineyard in the high heat of July—standing on the top of the Aquinnah Cliffs or lying on a striped beach towel at Lucy Vincent beach with a novel and a cold raspberry seltzer.
Or I crave the feeling of standing in a tiny Italian supermarket, the kind where everything seems crammed together and miniature compared to an American Wegman’s or IGA. I long to be right there, perusing the produce and comparing the prices handwritten in black marker on little scraps of paper. I want to assess the cereal aisle, seeing all foreign boxes and brands, or buy a pot of yogurt and have it taste more like sweet, soft cheese.
Sometimes being placesick comes upon me all at once—I’ll suddenly have the most vivid sensation of hiking in the mountains in Whistler—all cool, cold air and silence and soft trails strewn with pine needles. I’ll want to inhabit that place: run on its roads and line up to order the same breakfast avocado and scrambled egg wrap at Ingrid’s Village Cafe with all the ski instructors on Tuesday mornings and sun myself out by the creek and drink gin cocktails at the Fairmont happy hour when there’s Saturday night live music and drive a Jeep up to Squamish to swim in Evans Lake.
Other moments might trigger a similar sensation—I’ll eat a piece of pineapple and then boom, instead of sitting in my kitchen, I’m sitting on a stool at the beach bar in Virgin Gorda, a frosty pina colada sweating in my hand and the sound of a steel drum band tip-tapping its metallic rhythm behind me.
It could be placesickness brought on by need: living in New York City, I’d find myself wanting so badly to be anywhere with fresh air and quiet. Instead of waiting on a crowded subway platform, I’d wish myself elsewhere—like exhausted after a day of windy canoeing on the Rangely Lakes in Maine, propped in a Crazy Creek chair on the pebbled shore of a pinprick of an island, four canoes and paddles and camping gear piled neatly at the edge of the woods, the propane-fueled flame of a camp stove flickering merrily beside me. A battered aluminum pot would be resting on stove with water bubbling away. We’d boil noodles, then stir in peanut butter and soy sauce and garlic powder and vegetables for what we called gado gado (although the original and authentic dish of this name is an Indonesian stir-fried vegetable salad with a peanut sauce and no noodles, and our backpacking version was loosely inspired at best). We’d twirl the saucy noodles on foldable plastic camping forks and tell stories as the sun sank over the lake, letting our sore bodies sink into the earth and seeing nothing but inky dark water and the silhouette of evergreens and the star-scattered sky.
Oddly enough, this doesn’t happen with some places I’ve visited or spent time, even if I’ve loved them. I don’t miss Charleston—its colorful pastel buildings and drifts of gray Spanish moss hanging in the air like smoke. I don’t miss the treacherously steep streets of San Francisco or walking on the beach watching the mist rising off Half Moon Bay.
And sometimes it happens with places I’ve only visited in books—the salty sea air and smell of fish and chips in a seaside town in Cornwall or the ivy-covered stone dormitories and grassy quads of a boarding school just outside Boston.
It’s not a lust for travel or adventure, I don’t think, that stirs up these feelings. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. It’s some strange, bone-deep recognition of a version of myself lived elsewhere—me, comfortable and at home, in another set of routines and smells and sounds and sights.
Though I’d be surprised if you’ve been placesick for the exact same moments that I have, you’ll perhaps find comfort (or thrill or adventure) in tasting a tiny slice of something I yearn for—though it’s not a perfect approximation, this recipe is a quick and easy re-creation of the spirit of that gado gado camping dinner from those Maine canoe trips.
I’ve reinterpreted it as a vegetable-heavy summer dinner—instead of noodles, I shave carrots into thin ribbons with a vegetable peeler and toss them with mushrooms, broccoli, and edamame. The nutty, savory sauce is lighter and more complex than the one we’d pour over our noodles, but the flavor is just as reminiscent of it. We used to use peanut butter but any nut butter will do. If you like more heat, stir in a pinch of red pepper flakes.
Carrot Edamame Stir Fry
Serves 2 to 4
2 tablespoons sesame oil
1 garlic clove, minced
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper (more or less to taste)
1 cup sliced shiitake mushrooms
1 green bell pepper, sliced into thin strips
1 small head of broccoli, chopped into small pieces
1 1/2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup nut butter
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon lime juice
1 pound carrots (about 8 medium carrots)
2 tablespoons sliced scallions
2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds
Warm the sesame oil in a large skillet set over medium heat.
Add the garlic and crushed red pepper and cook just until fragrant, stirring constantly.
Add the sliced mushrooms and green pepper and cook until softened, about 3 minutes.
Add the broccoli, chicken broth, nut butter, soy sauce, and lime juice. Increase the heat to high and stir constantly until the peanut butter melts into the sauce.
Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the broccoli is cooked but retains some crunch.
Meanwhile, using a spiralizer or a vegetable peeler, shave the carrots into thin ribbons. (A peeler works fine here! The ribbons will just be flatter than they would be if made with a spiralizer.)
Add the carrot ribbons to the pan and cook for about 2 minutes. Stir to coat thoroughly with sauce.
Sprinkle the scallions and sesame seeds over the top and serve warm.