I want to say something about food.
Well, I want to say a lot of things.
And as always, I want to speak out of a place that recognizes my privilege. For one, to be able to sit in a comfy brown chair and write about it, and also, that I have the means to buy good ingredients, cook them, and feed myself and at times, others.
There is something to be said about sitting down at a table with plates with forks and maybe a few nice glasses. Maybe a cute napkin or some candles. Very similar to the picture at the top of this blog. It is a simple joy, that I can reproduce this from time to time. And really, it doesn’t take much.
But there’s something inside of me that gets excited when I know I am to be cooking for people I love and for friends I’ve yet to meet.
There is something strong, strong, strong in that.
For me, especially. It is the way I reach out to people. I pull them in to my story, a bit. Sometimes alcohol helps, but of course, it isn’t necessary.
Though I think there is a valid place for wine at my table. It softens the edges. Helps conversation flow more freely. Its smell reminds me of being rich. Though I am far from it. Well, in the ways some of us want to be rich.
Making the switch into “professional” cooking, though I am not really a professional, there are a few things that shift. For one, when you cook all the time, you don’t feel like doing it as much when you’re home. And when someone cooks for you, there is no greater feeling in the world. And if it tastes good, that’s a bonus.
My table is full of souls who need warm things in their bellies.
We realize, when we share food together, that we are all more alike than we are different. That fried fish is always good and that eating things with your hands makes food taste better at times.
At the heart of what I do, and why I love doing it, is this simple feeling of contentment. The smile on one’s face after they take a bite, and let it sit. The sauce that is wiped up with a piece of crusty bread.
A top off of wine to end the meal, though you have a slight buzz and a warm face.
The expectation of a little something sweet.
Maybe a cup of hot tea, or strong coffee.
And even more importantly, the dear souls who do the dishes, and are grateful for the exchange.
My table is full of belly laughs and deep searching.
For God knows what, mostly just chit chat and a few childhood stories.
My table has made me strong.
Because it is there I get to show people who I am without needing anything in return.
I’ll even wash your dishes, because when the world is closing in on you, you don’t need anything else to do.
But to just sit and enjoy something good and simple.
That’s what I love.
And that’s what I love about food.