What Nourish Meant

When humans eat alone, we are often left hungry.

“It’s been nice not eating with you, Barb.”

This was the sardonic line delivered by one of my colleagues yesterday. As the school year wraps up, there have been A LOT of end-of-year dinners, luncheons, and (not so) happy hours for me to attend…just in time for Ramadan.

To my right is a pita platter. To my left, pasta primavera.  I am hemmed in by temptation on all sides with only my haram iced tea to comfort me. (Yes, know it all. I realize I’m not supposed to be drinking during Ramadan. Mind yo’ bidness and tune in next blog for “Rama-my-way.” And ignore the mint in the background.)

tea

Situations such as these elicit a lot of apologies, as people bite into their bacon turkey clubs.

It is an interesting quirk of my spiritual impulses, that while I rarely seem to mind being the center of attention, say, on spirit day when I’m prancing around in a purple tutu, when it comes to matters of faith…I’m more comfortable with spiritual subtlety.

tutu you

I never wore a gold cross around my neck, never flew in an airplane with a Bible on my lap hoping for a conversion conversation, never wore a shirt that said “WWJD”, never bought an fish for the back of my car.

And now that my spirituality has become a syncretic mystical mix, I may write reflectively in a public blogging space or answer any direct questions, I’m not knocking door to door to hand out certainty in pamphlet form.

This is all to say, collective meals during sun-up make me feel awkward. I almost skipped this one.

But then…

Something funny happened (as it often does) when we lean into rather than away from spaces and situations that discomfort us.

Because I didn’t have to pay attention to food, I could pay attention to people.

fast break1

During Ramadan, you begin to realize just how much of your day is focused on your belly. What goes into it, how it’s feeling, what it’s saying, how big it’s getting, and on, and on, and on. Even at this meal I would have devoted time to choosing my food, eating my food, comparing my food to those around me, trading my food for theirs.

I’ve always found it fascinating that we humans the world over have taken this…well, kind of gross thing we must do to survive (aka: crushing up living things in our mouth into a moist paste) and created so many rituals, recipes, and reality shows around this most basic of acts. Trees have a much more elegant method of survival. Sun from the top. Water from the bottom. Imagine everything they can get done because they don’t have to shop at Harris Teeter for the 42 line recipe from Cook’s Illustrated!

What’s more, we know that particularly in our country, this act that is simply supposed to nourish us has made us sick. We have made our taste buds, not our tummies, the gatekeeper of what enters our bodies. All kinds of food like substances that don’t end up nourishing us at all. Instead they give us heart disease and colon cancer.

Last Ramadan I realized that my WORST eating habits happened in isolation. I was most likely to eat a bag of leftover Halloween candy unobserved in my cinder-block office, or a block of Manchego cheese before my kids got home from school, or a Chic-fil-a sandwich and peppermint milkshake in my car and quickly get rid of the evidence (in my progressive shame), or a carton of Cherry Garcia after my husband went to bed the night before Ramadan.

For me, peer pressure has never made me bad. It’s helped me be good. This is true of my eating and my being.

In contrast, During Ramadan, both eating and NOT eating becomes a communal rather than individual act. Iftar is the meal that breaks the fast. At sundown you wait for the call to prayer, as the last rays descend below the horizon you eat your date and guzzle your water, migrate in to pray, and then migrate out to stuff your face with platters of house prepared delights. If you celebrate at the mosque you will do this under a great white tent with all your fellow parishoners (mosque-ishoners?), or alternately you will do this at home amidst the tangle of your family. Like 40 days of Thanksgiving at dusk.

Date with date
“You got a date with a date!”

Consequently, Ramadan can be a very isolating experience for solitary Muslims. Men working abroad away from their families. College students without an MSA. Anyone who has unwillingly spent a holiday estranged from their people will be able to sympathize.

Just in the few days I have been fasting, I feel the hunger most acutely in isolation…and somehow not at all when I’m laughing on the stoop with my neighbors, chasing my kids down on their bikes, sweating through yoga next to strangers, telling and hearing ghost stories while I sip my iced tea next to a sardonic pita pounding colleague.

 

The hunger abates.

I feel satiated.

stoop break

I wonder if what we mistake for hunger pangs may be a society starving for deep human connection.

 

When humans eat alone, we are often left hungry.

For what?

Each other, I think.

Now that’s a craving I’m happy to cave into.

Potluck Invitation (Day 11)

I have a running list of what I call “elemental loves.” On it may be found Johnny Cash, Cilantro, Paradox, the color orange, and other oddly wonderful entities. On this list, also, is the favorite tradition (or should I say tra-DISH-ion) of my cultural heritage: Potlucks.

I once declared when visiting a friend’s church, “You will know a church by its potlucks!” I stand by this claim and feel that I can more broadly adapt it to: You will know a COMMUNITY by how it feeds its people.

I grew up attending potlucks in the church basement at King’s Chapel every few months. It was always a marvel to me, the spectacular variations in casseroles, crockpots, and dishes involving Velveeta. This sampling offered a glimpse into the lives of the people who brought them.

As I grew up and moved through other communities, I glimpsed other possible ways of being.

At Carleton my senior year, I ate off a table built by Lila, suspended from the ceiling of “Great Space.” That year, Julie Honegger, Kat Jones Lippy, and I created and bound cookbooks that contained all our favorite people, poems, and recipes.

We forced Julie to make this dressing for every event INCLUDING an outdoor Bluegrass Festival. You don't have to be Vegan to think it's awesome.
We forced Julie to make this dressing for every event INCLUDING an outdoor Bluegrass Festival. You don’t have to be Vegan to think it’s awesome.

When I came to Maryland I was a Vegetarian. I buckled under the pressures of Old Bay and a crab feasts. The Oblate Sisters of Providence fell upon a pile of crabs with such unfettered jubilation, it seemed sacrilegious not to take part.

This blog is becoming a side-board of the unexpected. You are invited to contribute a dish. In the coming weeks I have a vague sense of the flavors to come. Maybe if you get a whiff, you will feel inspired to bring sustenance of your own.

  • Work Week – For the next week or so, I will be talking about my vocational calling to American Public Education. “Public school as public space”, “Any Millennial for President,” these are just a few of the topics I’ll make my way through.
  • Weak Week – Let the REAL confessions begin. Good intentions and human frailty. I’ve been psyching myself up to for this. It would be a shame to blush alone.
  • We, Oui, Wii, Week – Collaboration, communion, and convocation across cultures. The last 10 days of Lent, I will be offering glimpses into the feast of religious experiences that have shaped my soul.

There’s too much goodness here for me to eat alone. I know many of you are beautiful writers, thinkers, and being-ers. If you’re writing something somewhere or if you’re writing nothing nowhere but have been MEANING to bake us a tale, we’d all love a nibble.

What a powerful thing to be nourished by a community. To take into yourself something prepared in the home of someone else. To take on faith that you will show up with your side-dish and leave with a 10 course meal in your belly.