When I think about food, I don’t just think about flavors or recipes. I think about the girl who once opened an empty refrigerator and the woman who now fills her kitchen in abundance. I think about the choices I didn’t have, the ones I fought for, and the ones I now savor — slowly, gratefully, intentionally.
In a recent conversation with a friend, where our childhood experiences were introduced into the discussion, I found myself sharing a revelation in real time that consisted of me admitting that I hoard food as a response to past food insecurities. A few times during the year I either have a barbeque with the excessive amounts of meat that needed to be cooked or use them during seasonal holidays – options that generally work out and keep me from throwing away money. However, the immense amount of microwaveable meals, refrigerated products, and snacks that would go bad due to an inability to consume them before expiration is what old folks would call, “a shame before God”, and it was. While reflecting during the conversation I found myself remembering what it was like not having food during the years that I lived in my first apartment. I was 17 when I acquired it and had dropped out of high school and was working at a nursing home making around $7.50 an hour to pay for it. I couldn’t afford the less than $300 rent, and utilities, so there was no way I could afford food. My refrigerator was nearly always empty. I’d eat at a friends or if someone brought something for everyone at work most times. While at other times I would braid hair as a side hustle to make some additional money and put what I could in the refrigerator. I recalled in thinking back how I had at various times during my youth and young adult life missed meals and after the birth of my son sacrificed meals during his first years-memories that still carry a type of sorrow with them. Poverty notwithstanding, the Lord always, made provisions for me to eat – even if it was once a day or so. I shared that I never wanted my son to experience that, so he has options and plenty of them. In my mind I thought to myself that, that would never happen to me again if I could help it.
As the conversation evolved, we ventured into my becoming the friend, relative whose known for cooking. We laughed at how at one point I didn’t know how to cook anything and that as a beginner at 17, I made quite a few missteps in cooking due to a lack of guidance and know how. I got clowned for it and in some instances trashed talked behind my back harshly and unknowingly for my lack of skills at the time, but I learned. I learned two meals. Spaghetti was the first – not that hard to mess up, unless the meat wasn’t thoroughly cooked - I knew to cook it until browned. The second was fried chicken, velveeta shells and cheese and canned corn. I had been taught by a childhood friend how to fry chicken – that one was a learning experience. The latter meal was my go-to for years and every once in a while, I go back to it for old times sake. The experiences that we shared over that conversation made me realize how far I had come and how connected the difficulties of my earlier life were to my purpose. I developed a sensitivity to people who were hungry, homeless, and destitute. As my cooking skills developed and I was sure that I wasn’t poisoning anyone with undercooked meat, I began plating the remainder of the food that I had cooked to give to those who were on corners asking for food. Sometimes what I was giving away I needed as well, but it was satisfying and somehow fulfilling to help. At the time I had no understanding of what it meant to be altruistic or people pleasing – and I was both. Eventually, after years, I began hosting dinners for my family. My menu didn’t consist of the variety that it has now, but it was sufficient to prove that my skills had significantly improved. Cooking became a thing for me and I enjoyed it. I am no chef, but it made me feel good. It was always nice to get a kind word or meal request in response to a past dish you had served. I leaned into it.
Today, cooking a meal is one of my favorite ways to say you’re important to me. Each time I am gifted the opportunity to prepare a meal for someone outside of my household, there always seems to be a topic of discussion that ends in clarity, comfort, or a resolve on a topic whether the moment was for me or my honored guest. A seat at my table, the right cocktail and conversation brings with it something that heals and soothes my soul.
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