Big Fish

Anything tastes good if someone you love serves it to you

As a child, whenever my parents had evening plans, my eldest brother, Griffin, would gleefully volunteer to babysit.

Griffin is nine years older than me, and, at the unripe age of six, it hadn’t quite dawned on me how impossibly and devastatingly sweet it was that he had opted to spend teenage nights with little sis instead of friends.

We grew up in a heavily organic household. I remember my mom visiting Union Square Whole Foods for the first time in 2005 and remarking that it “wasn’t as extensive” as her local health food store, Lifethyme. She wasn’t a freak, but having grown up with the organic abundances of French agriculture at her fingertips, she was, to put it simply, unimpressed by American conveniences.

That mentality applied to all offspring, excluding Griffin. Griffin was allowed to eat whatever he pleased. This was because, if he wasn’t allowed to eat “griff food,” he simply wouldn’t eat at all.

As a kid, he’d make my mom painstakingly remove the “skin” from any hot dog he planned on consuming. Concessions were made, and all agreed it was more important that he consumed any food than good food.

I’d tug open the freezer with two hands to be hit with a waft of extra cold air. After the smoky frost dissipated, the coolest food on the planet would present itself to me: Tostino’s Pizza Rolls, French Bread Pizza, and Amy’s Cheese Enchiladas.

I always knew Griffin was different. Some got it, some resented it, but he was always authentically and unapologetically himself…way before people applauded individualism to that degree.

When our parents left the house, Griffin lifted the curtain on his world: one of obsession, imagination, and vast knowledge. He was the smartest person I’d ever met, with the demeanor of a Toys R Us kid patiently waiting for fountain soda. He wanted me to be cool so badly, not for the sake of others, but for the sake of living with myself.

By age seven, I was the proud owner of the entire history of 1960-1970’s R&B Girl Groups on CD and would carry around a metallic blue hand-me-down Walkman like it was a trophy. Blondie was my first concert, and Cyndi Lauper was my second. For someone under ten, I had really good taste, but that’s because he helped me find it.

This was on purpose. He created syllabi within his head to make sure I stayed on track. Nothing was contrived, but he deemed it important that certain films be shown at certain ages and that I discover the right art to aid growing pains and encourage emotional development.

This is how I remember our nights together:

Our parents would finally leave the house after teasing their departure for far, far too long. Griff would lock the doors, turn out the lights, turn on the TV, and call Domino’s.

This was our favorite shared meal. He’d order two pies, garlic sticks with marinara, and the cinnamon sticks with a pool of icing for dunking. We both poured shockingly cold ginger ale or Limonata over ice. The order was a science, and the meal brought out the best of us. I often preciously cite Proustian verbiage to describe how food is inextricably tied to memories and feelings. Well, this is perhaps the most profound one I have.

We’d scrunch our bodies up as close to the TV as possible and eat endless slices on paper plates with crinkled grease-coated napkins. Everything felt like the most important and thrilling moment that’d ever happened to me.

He’d turn on a movie, typically PG13 or R.

On this night, he put on Tim Burton’s 2004 film Big Fish and watched my eyes widen with increasing bewilderment. We must have sat there in silence for the entire 125-minute duration, but when he turned over to me during the last scene, I was cupping my tiny hands to catch tears I was embarrassed to shed. We didn’t talk about it, but he knew I knew he knew.

Through film, and particularly this one, I realized you could turn to characters for consolation and escape to worlds far beyond the one you live in to make sense of your own. It was a ticket to get lost, to become cooler, smarter, and to figure out who you really were. He let me in on the secret that Dame Marjorie "Maude" Chardin would be there for me 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, even when he wasn’t.

I don’t remember the “last” time we had this ritual. Perhaps it’s never ended, just evolved, as we have with it. But I’d do anything to be back on the orange rug of our childhood living room floor, laughing, crying, and feeling the most seen I’ve ever felt.

We collect the beauty we see in others and try our best to impart it on ourselves. Perhaps my most sparkling innards come from observing and loving Griffin.

x R