I'm writing this as a tired mother of a newborn...for the sixth time.
It's something I'm enduring gratefully and graciously, as I asked for this from a deep place of longing and desire to nurture a baby human again, to have another chance at remembering this time and space again of being vulnerable and closest to the primitive being-ness of being human. Of smelling the smell of a human that came from me, and welling up another sum of love to last him for the rest of my life.
And it is with pregancy, and delivery, and breastfeeding, and be-ing as a mother-this need for food. Food is the life-source that allows us to take once-living things, reuse them as our fuel, and partake in this practice several times a day, hopefully done often with others that we love and that we like as we maintain our own place in this life by our need to feed. I'm grateful to have fond memories around food, not that the food was always the best, but the memories of it's surroundings leave me feeling warm, nurtured, and close to my recollections of the life I've had thus far. Food has always had a warm energy around it, and it makes sense, as it's made from sources of heat. The heat of an animal body that was once living; the heat of the sun as it grows the plants; the heat of the fire as it makes the food fit for consumption, and energetically the glow and gleam of the fondness and love with which it is often prepared for us, and with which we prepare it for our own loved ones. Love is warm.
As I've continued to expand and to grow into my path, I've been blessed to share good food with good people. I've been blessed to teach my children some tricks and recipes in which I've found joy. I've watched others prepare (with a stretch of time I thought would never end) dishes that are accompanied with the pleasant sizzle of the oil in the pan as meat or potatoes are fried and sauteed, and the aroma of herbs and spices that are teasing my patience. I've enjoyed and hated the time between the prep of the ingredients to the fan of the flame on the stove or in the oven to the steam rising from just-finished fare.
As a mother and an activist, I've found cultural norms and expectations around food to be very comforting and even a standard to abide by. Some of those norms include discussing what will be served, including things that stand out such as a new seasoning, technique, or recipe used. Who the recipes came from, or even a national origin the dish is assigned to. Who has cooked the dish is important, because our relationship with that person or the synergy between the spirits of those serving and those being served will add to the overall experience of the meal, and how we perceive it to warm, fill, and fully feed us. The standards of cleanliness behind which it was prepared. Some will want to know if the meat was washed. Some will want to know if the vegetables or fruits were washed thoroughly. And everyone expects those who approach a kitchen with the intent of serving anyone to observe the most important ritual of handwashing, or else not even think of touching food to prepare much less serve it to anyone.
I've been fed during times of disassociation when brutalized by police. I've been fed during times of being pumped full of cortisol, so much so that I can only pursue what feels like it might give me freedom, making cooking something of a pleasure I couldn't afford to indulge in. My relationship with cooking has changed as my relationships have changed, as I've lived now as a divorcee for several years, and as I only have my children in my home part of the time as I share custody, and as I remain a single woman without a partner. Cooking is something that has always for me been synonymous with company, sharing, and companionship. It is not something to be a reminder of loneliness, quiet, and loss. And so I've cooked considerably less in the past several years than I have in other past seasons throughout my life.
I have, however, been fed. I've been fed by beautiful people with beautiful smiles, soft hearts, and an interest in making sure I am consuming calories and the love inside of the food. Experiencing gratitude, comfort, and warmth inside of meals makes me think of cooking again, or at least reminds me of how wonderful it is to share food with others. Even if someone is not the most skilled cook in my eyes or according to my tastebuds, often the knowledge that they thought of me and thought of feeding me has been something that has caused me to feel seen, nurtured, and vulnerable as a human in need of being fed like every other human I live life in proximity to. I've been fed by tired people, people who live simply, people who don't make a lot of money or haven't had a lot of education. But these people know that a good plate means something. The love and care one puts into the food gets served to the person who eats it. And that is something one can feel.
I want to one day travel for the purpose of eating, drinking, dancing, and taking in the landscape of this beautiful Earth. To fulfill my hunger for knowledge, understanding, global connection, and land-based acknowledgement of our small spec-sized space that we each take up in this world. Yet the space is large enough to exist in the memories and thoughts of those who have had the opportunity to pass by us in this plane and to maybe learn a thing or two about us and from us as we have about them and from them. I want to involve food experiences in my understanding of human interconnectedness.
Many acknowledge that food is medicine. It has the ability to heal and help one recover from illnesses, of the body and the psyche. Eating a dish a loved one would have prepared can help someone cope with grief and longing for someone who is no longer living. Using the simple duo of onions and garlic as a base in most meals of meat and vegetables can help with viruses the body may be facing. Drinking the offerings of herbs and plants in the forms of teas has sustained many people and helped them heal from the day to day of living. Eating your first meal postpartum can have the power to ground you to the space you are inhabiting after the ethereal journey of delivering a human child into this plane. The taste of the ingredients and the blend of the flavors can seal a memory into your mind that makes that particular dish turn into an association with that powerful event in your life. Being the chef or preparer of a meaningful meal or tea or special beverage can make you the healer or agent of healing to a person in need of food medicine.
Food then, and especially being cooked for, is part of an act of service that can have meaning beyond just filling the need to eat. Food is symbolic of our relationships to one another. To know who is preparing our food, to the care they have taken in preparing it, the thoughtfulness they have put into using ingredients that will serve particular needs that we have, and the way it is transferred and served to us, is a ceremony. It is recognizing the giving involved, the time involved, and the care involved. It can also encompass the love and joy of person giving us something that aids in our preservation of life, which is no small act. In these reflections, I give thanks for the breast that nurtured me, the parents and family that kept me fed, the partners that quietly rummaged around the kitchen, finding what they needed to prepare something I would love, and now the children that are learning the art of caring for the family through food. One day, I am looking forward to going into the kitchen again with a new zeal for new dishes, so that I may once again show love to others through the work of my hands, the heat of the kitchen fire, and the slow preparation of the medicine they may need. Until then, I give thanks for those who have served me in this way. I receive with gratitude.
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