The most formational experiences of my life have come from sitting at a table and sharing a meal with people who are different from myself.
When you stop to think about it, its really a magical experience to find deep connections with people who have very different life experiences. Its especially magical when the connection is forged over the visceral desire of hunger. I think of hunger as vulnerability at its most basic form. It is a daily, universal experience of neediness that all humanity shares. In places where I haven't understood the people around me, I've been especially grateful for the way that hunger connects us.
Hunger is one of the most basic human longings. Right along with the desire for love and safety - hunger is something that we all share in common. We love it and hate it. Food carries with it both the power to make us whole or destroy us. Abundance and scarcity, obsession and disgust, diets and binges, culture and home, processed and organic, allergies and sensations. Hunger draws out all of our senses, along with a lot of emotions, opinions, pains, memories, and longings from deep places within us.
Ultimately, I believe that hunger brings us to the table in need of something more than just food.
Ultimately, I believe that hunger brings us to the table in need of something more than just food.
We're all hungry for human connection. When I eat lunch by myself, I have to resist the urge to also check Facebook. Because sometimes, I need to connect with my own self. Words and activity aren't necessary for deep connection, and neither are perfect place settings, decor, or gourmet food. The food itself does matter - a little love and thoughtfulness mixed into the preparations goes a long way - but I've discovered that even a shared box of Mac N' Cheese can be filled with love. Intentions are the only determining factor for connection with both my self and others.
Sitting at tables with people who are different from me is where I have learned the most about myself and others.
The big table in my parent's house which was always covered with homeschool books, bills, and fresh produce from my mom's garden. Racing to get seconds before my brothers ate it all. Seven kids, and frequent guests. Somehow, there was always enough to eat.
The terrifying and overwhelming school cafeterias, with unknown rules governing where you can sit and eat. Looking for a smile, a welcoming face, an invitation to be part of a group. Insecurities raged, appetites lost, new hungers emerged.
The warm and fragrant homes of hospitable new friends recently relocated from Ukraine and Ethiopia. From deeply filling Borsch to full bodied spices infusing a hearty lamb stew accompanied with tangy fresh injera. Plates being refilled as soon as they were empty. Generous, endless, gifts of food and exchange of cultures.
The feasts prepared in Ghana, Africa. Prayers of gratitude for food on the table and freedom that is not taken for granted. We ate and were watched closely; our delight in their food was their greatest joy. Lip smacking, finger licking, clapping, laughing, story telling, and sitting at the table for hours. Fullness in stomach and heart.
The tables in the cafeteria at the homeless shelter in Milwaukee. The choice to eat with the guests, or by myself. Thoughts about my own comfortable table to return to when I clocked out of my 8 hour shift. Hamhocks, meatloaf, baked beans, and cooked greens. The food of a non-profit budget subject to that week's donations. Food that often tasted even worse than it looked. The discovery that it's possible to leave a table feeling more hungry than when we arrived.
The first table we called "ours" in our first apartment in Chicago. It was a small and perfect square with room for four. We wanted to learn to be generous and practice hospitality. We regularly invited and welcomed our co-workers, our neighbors, our classmates, and two teenagers that we grew to love. Regardless of ethnicity, orientation, or beliefs. We invited them to share meals with us at our small square pub table in our little apartment on Thorndale. What we didn’t initially realize is the extent that we would be sharing life with the people who came to our table. Big, beautiful, messy life. Full of diversity and complexity. We soon realized that we needed a bigger table. Our perfect square was just too small for sharing life with others. So we exchanged our square on craigslist for a bigger one. A wooden rectangle that has been seasoned with impatient forks, hot dishes, and yet stands strong after 50 years of Thanksgivings. Imperfect, but handmade in Michigan in 1960.
And now we share a table that isn't ours, every day, with people different from ourselves. Sharing life with Sarah and Jodi revolves around the table. We all get hungry, and we sit down together to eat. Breakfast and Dinner. Pizza every Friday night. Tacos on Tuesday. And out for lunch on Sundays. The rest of the time we eat lots of broccoli, kale, carrots, salads, fresh meat, and legumes. We daydream about the juicy burgers and bubbly soda at Red Robin --the special occasion treat of choice. Dessert is a powerful potion containing motivational magic. So we have it every day: apples, strawberries, pineapple and occasionally cookies, ice cream, or chocolate. Sarah and Caden pray a simple prayer of "GANKS GOD" for a constantly changing variety of wonderful things. Jodi begrudgingly holds hands, and keeps one eye on her food. The "AMEN" is punctuated with a cacophony of burps, belches, grunts, toots, snorts, lip smacking, and reminders to wipe your face. Our table is messy and noisy. But there's always enough to eat, and there's always room for a few more.
