It began, as some magical things do, with one booklover lending another booklover a book:
Magic is a funny thing; it can begin in many different ways, and it operates seemingly outside the constraints of fear or space or time. And though neither of us knew it, when one booklover offered the other his book, and when she accepted it, we stepped into that Other World without fear or space or time, and, in surprisingly short order and for the very first time, we fell in love.
So much has changed since those days: We packed all of our things and both of our cats and moved across the country in a rickety truck, with minds to about-face our careers. And so much has stayed the same: We’re constantly tripping out the door, chasing kooky outings, long, long walks, and a mess of culinary ingredients.
But one thing which both of us have missed from those early days is our letter writing. Before we began seeing each other, we used to melt away the hours, keying our histories and our travels and our very personal thoughts. The glow of the screen was our moonlight; our inboxes stood in for a balcony. Once we began dating, notes would sometimes follow time spent together, serving the dual purpose of complementing the experiences and cementing their memory in the black-and-white of ink on screen.
Though the letters slowly dwindled as we spent more time together in person, we both knew we wanted to reclaim the magic of writing; thus, Syrupy Cabbage has come to be.
This amalgamation of words and ideas is our collective garden – a place for us to share our stories and water our minds and cultivate our memories, in equal measure. We hope you enjoy what you see and read. We hope you try a few recipes and tell us how they fare. We hope this is the beginning of something magical.
My name is Mary Cate. I hail from Texas, but the closest I’ve felt at home in a place was on a bloody, historical walking tour in Edinburgh, Scotland. Growing up, I could be exclusively found either reading or writing or in rehearsal. Due to some complicated college-era decisions, now only the former rings true, though I’m finally taking steps to bring the latter back into my life. I am curious about nearly everything, but I find sexuality, gender, the taboo, comedy, language, communication, travel, and the arts especially compelling. I’m came to New York to answer some stage questions and ask some new ones.
And I’m Noah. I was born and raised in a tiny Wisconsin town that’s at least an hour away from anything. This bred twin obsessions from an early age: travel and books. Both of these were encouraged by my parents, who never hesitated to hop into a car or an airplane and take me to scores of museums, concerts, and plays. They also furnished me with hundreds upon hundreds of things to read – mom’s the local library director, and dad was a professor. We didn’t live in a house so much as an enormous bookshelf. Since leaving Wisconsin, I’ve made stops in England, Canada, Washington, Texas, and New York. I’m here for many reasons – the art, the excitement, the Mary Cate – but mainly because, after years of reading books, I decided that it was finally time to write one.
About the cabbage, and why it is syrupy:
There is a French term of endearment of which we are particularly fond: mon petit chou. Literally, my little cabbage. My odd little wonderful leafy vegetable. We could say something horrifically romantic about how we nurture one another’s souls like vegetables nurture the body, but we don’t want to make you ill. As for the syrup, you may not be surprised at this point to hear that we’ve shown a certain knack for being sickeningly sticky and sweet. We’ll let French Renaissance writer François Rabelais sum it up with the following line from his novel Gargantua and Pantagruel:
“O twice and thrice happy those that plant cabbages!”
We’ll see you in the garden.