As a child I remember sitting around a large table at my Grandfather's house listening to the grownups talking over dinner. Most of the vegetables had been grown in the garden behind the house not too far from the chicken coop and the railroad tracks. My Dad and family lived "on the right side of the tracks, but so close that it didn't matter to some.
My Grandfather had come down from Canada to settled and worked on the railroad. He was a big man, with a belly of a stomach that was firm against my head when he hugged me. In the living room was his chairand no one else could sit in it. It was an over stuffed rocking chair with wide legs and runners, sturdy enough to hold him and me while he read the Sunday funnies out loud. People talked a lot more those days.
The dinner table was where all the excitement happened. There was a lot of laughter, big voices, points of view that would anger my Father and make my Mother red in the face. Children were reminded to "be quiet" which I did, because the world of the grownups fascinated me and I was anxious to make my own choices.
Yes, the dinner table was were all the excitement happened, but the magic happened in the kitchen. My mother was banned from the kitchen, except to help clean up and sometimes I was allowed to watch. The one time I was allowed to help, I was sent to the front yard to pick our lunch salad. I learned to identify baby dandilions, sorrel, and tiny mustard greens that grew wild.
My Aunt raised my Dad and his four sisters along with Grampa. I was told my real grandmother had died. I don't even know her name, no one ever talked about her then or even now. As a child, I thought my Aunt was my granma even though her name was "Aunt Chubby". She stood about 4 foot 5 and I could not get my child arms around her. I loved her marshmellow hugs, so soft they made me feel safe in my ever changing world. Her food was simple, basic, and beautiful. There was always a moment at dinner, when the table fell silent except "please pass the gravey, mumm.... and simular noises"
It was "Chubby" that lit the passion in me for "Good food, Good conversation and community.
There is simply nothing like exchanging ideas while nourishing the body with foods that have been prepared with love and respect. That is when the magic truely happens, when the love is channeled, when the respect is acknowledged and the food is the first recipient. As an adult,
I know that this simple act of attention is a form of alchalmy or the ability to turn "staw into gold," sickness into health and imagination into vision. It is part of a bigger picture and should not be minimized by mass production; "just mix, heat and serve " Yes, we are busy people, but maybe we should just slow down a bit and smell the chicken soup!
My Grandfather had come down from Canada to settled and worked on the railroad. He was a big man, with a belly of a stomach that was firm against my head when he hugged me. In the living room was his chairand no one else could sit in it. It was an over stuffed rocking chair with wide legs and runners, sturdy enough to hold him and me while he read the Sunday funnies out loud. People talked a lot more those days.
The dinner table was where all the excitement happened. There was a lot of laughter, big voices, points of view that would anger my Father and make my Mother red in the face. Children were reminded to "be quiet" which I did, because the world of the grownups fascinated me and I was anxious to make my own choices.
Yes, the dinner table was were all the excitement happened, but the magic happened in the kitchen. My mother was banned from the kitchen, except to help clean up and sometimes I was allowed to watch. The one time I was allowed to help, I was sent to the front yard to pick our lunch salad. I learned to identify baby dandilions, sorrel, and tiny mustard greens that grew wild.
My Aunt raised my Dad and his four sisters along with Grampa. I was told my real grandmother had died. I don't even know her name, no one ever talked about her then or even now. As a child, I thought my Aunt was my granma even though her name was "Aunt Chubby". She stood about 4 foot 5 and I could not get my child arms around her. I loved her marshmellow hugs, so soft they made me feel safe in my ever changing world. Her food was simple, basic, and beautiful. There was always a moment at dinner, when the table fell silent except "please pass the gravey, mumm.... and simular noises"
It was "Chubby" that lit the passion in me for "Good food, Good conversation and community.
There is simply nothing like exchanging ideas while nourishing the body with foods that have been prepared with love and respect. That is when the magic truely happens, when the love is channeled, when the respect is acknowledged and the food is the first recipient. As an adult,
I know that this simple act of attention is a form of alchalmy or the ability to turn "staw into gold," sickness into health and imagination into vision. It is part of a bigger picture and should not be minimized by mass production; "just mix, heat and serve " Yes, we are busy people, but maybe we should just slow down a bit and smell the chicken soup!
Comments
Post a Comment