Residue: Manifesto

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Writing (2023-2026)

It's a labor of love, though that's very general.

What began as a simple discussion about our love for cooking, and the found family that develops around the table during a shared meal, expanded into a challenge to see how vast those principles could stretch. We set out not just to exaggerate the heartfelt labor that goes into cooking a meal for people you care about, but to document that hard work in a distinctive way, further highlighting the love of the work.

A shared meal; a gathering of those who care for the sake of care, as documented by what was and was not left behind.

Residue (2023)

55 guests

3 days of cooking

4 trays of baked mac n cheese

3 bowls of garden salad

8 jars of salad dressing

6 pitchers of iced tea

2 loaves of store-bought bread

3 cubic ft of sink

6 hours of dishwashing

1 accusation of homophobia

Residue (2024)

14 invites

9 guests

2 bowls of pasta salad

1 tray of chicken thighs

2 pitchers of home-brewed iced tea

1 loaf of focaccia

47 dollars worth of olive oil

2 dry sockets

Residue (2026)

10 Guests

160 square feet of kraft paper

12 colored pencils

28 Kebabs

6 Ears of Corn

42 Zested Limes

2 liter bottles of polar seltzer

1 stick of butter

8 boiled potatoes

2 civil law suits for mesothelioma developed from complications due to matte finishing spray

A shared meal: I think you’re robbing yourself of something uniquely human when you have a meal that’s too formal. I haven’t spent a lot of time in my life in high-end dining establishments, not just because it’s “not my thing” or out of my price point, but because I think that an environment that is too structured can take the enjoyment out of eating really good food. The best meals I’ve eaten so far in life have been in cars, on the sides of streets or standing in the middle of someone’s kitchen, sharing a moment with someone and making that moment about the food regardless of where we are.

Growing up, my parents forwent the formalities of family meals pretty early on. I didn’t spend most of my childhood having to lay out dishes, keep my elbows off the table, or ask politely for someone to pass me the salad bowl. It makes sense now how unimportant those formalities probably started to seem to my parents, coming home from a 12 hour shift at work, finally being able to relax for the evening, and just being glad to have food on the table. We ate most of our meals together in the living room, watching a movie or just talking about our days. I would have the most fun inviting friends over and being able to show off how cool it was that my parents didn’t make us gather around the table for dinner and ask permission to leave when we were done. We got to sit down in a space that was more comfortable and enjoy good food and good company without interruptions or rules.

In the spaces I’ve inhabited since moving away from home, I’ve fostered that spirit of sharing meals in less-than-formal spaces. From dorm couches to the hallway of my first college apartment, to an asbestos-laden basement in undergrad, some of the best times I know how to have with friends and family are times spent sharing a meal by whatever means we can. As Owen and I’s friendship grew during undergrad so did the list of odd spaces we’d eaten together in. There were many lunches in that basement below the performance hall with a cranky old studio manager. There were an unreasonable amount of burrito deliveries eaten on the floor while working late to plan a show. There were courtyard pizzas in between classes, late night vending machine dinners, a japanese barbeque excursion that we got so many discounts on our waiter should have been arrested, enough moments that it would take a whole additional book just to get them all down in their unique intrigue. As it turns out, we have pretty similar personal philosophies behind why we think those moments are so important.

A gathering of those who care for the sake of care: We were out really late one night when we started scraping together the initial ideas for Residue. It was one of those projects that creeps up on you slowly. It was like a tease at the back of our throats for a few days that we couldn't quite put into words only for everything dense about the concept and execution to come down on us unexpectedly in one night.

When it comes to sharing a meal, who you’re sharing it with and why you’re all there are variable factors that determine so much about the experience. For us to put emphasis on the importance and the emotions behind sharing a meal with someone, it’s important to understand what makes each experience different.

Going to Ihop with 26 other teenagers 45 minutes before close is about being excited about being young and having some sense of freedom and selfhood. You’re all there because you just finished your last night of the school musical, and the food isn’t great because all the good restaurants in town close at a reasonable hour and aren’t cheap enough to afford as a 16 year old. But you’re not there for the quality of the food. The food is a necessary excuse to celebrate an accomplishment, and say a sort-of goodbye to the seniors who won’t be in the play next year.

Going home for Thanksgiving when you know your grandfather won’t make it until next year is about appreciating a tradition and the people that helped create it. The food is still good even though Papa hasn’t been the one making the turkey the past few years. You do it because you hope he understands you’re doing it one last time for him and the memory of the many years he made it so enjoyable and that the holiday will never be as important without him. And even if it’s a bit melingancholic, [needs smthn]

Going out to get more expensive groceries on the other side of the city for a small dinner with friends is sometimes about wanting to prove that you’re a better cook than your friends, but is more often about wanting some really good food to enhance the experience of spending time with one another. Could we have walked down the street and gotten take-out? Sure, and we would have had just as enjoyable of a time because tonight is mostly about all of us hanging out, and talking a bit of shit, and catching up. But just a few moments of appreciating how good the meal is seems to make it feel that much more rewarding that we all came through for a night.

There’s something to discover within all of this variability, something to investigate and build upon. What do Owen and I enjoy about sharing a meal together? We enjoy the endless displays of selfless effort in all of these situations. There’s appreciation to be had for having dinner at a friend's apartment and they politely turn you down when you offer to pay them back for some of the groceries. There’s appreciation to be had for your mom coming to the table last because it took her a while to cook everything and she made sure everyone else got served first. There’s even appreciation to be had for the coworker that suggests everyone go grab a late breakfast together after a long weekend of work.

What can we attempt to bring out of others by bringing them together and in how we bring them there?

The real meat of Residue is the discovery process of bringing people together and having a particular level of control over who’s coming, why they’re coming, and what they think they’re getting out of it. Regardless of these changing variables, when you gather for a meal it’s because you care about something and we can keep that care at the center of any number of experimental rounds of Residue.

As documented by what was and was not left behind: In the end, the plates do all the talking. It feels only appropriate that the story of our shared meal is spoken through the meal itself (or at least what’s left of it).

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Aurelia Delaney