Meals to Remember

I chose two meals to write about for this post on memorable meals.

On April 3rd, 2014, I wrote the passage below about meals in our friend’s Sewanee lake house. (While I’m slightly appalled by my writing, I have changed nothing.)

“We had the most amazing meals out there in the middle of nowhere. We were in the middle of the woods. Climbing a tree, building a fort, waging war on our siblings. We heard Mr. Peters calling, “Dinner, guys.” We didn’t answer. “Hey, kids, supper. Food.” We might’ve heard him that time. “Okay, fine. Don’t come in. We’re eating without you.” We came that time. We skidded into the cabin breathing hard, carving knives in hand. “Off with the shoes, put down the knife, Jake, wash up,” said one of the moms. Still breathing hard, still muddy legs and feet, we sat down to a home cooked meal after a long day. Anything would’ve been good. The taste wasn’t the only thing wonderful. We were with our best friends, in the middle of the woods, with a successful day of being wood warriors behind us, looking forward to a night slept in a tent. Those were some good meals.”

The meals there, at the cabin with friends and dogs, remain some of my most treasured.

Meals with families and partners in Kenya are always… something. Whether the food be tasty (often), unsettling (usually), or plain (rarely), the food is shared, not merely given. A meal is an invitation to fellowship, to acknowledge common cause, to gather. One such meal I remember was in my first few weeks of life in Kenya. We drove 2 hours north of Nairobi to a school and orphanage situated on a swath of land being farmed or otherwise used. The students run the place – put in their bit by tending the land, feeding the cows, cleaning the classrooms.

Once we had toured the school, the surrounding dormitories, patted the noses of calves, and played soccer in the yard, we were led, by the director, into a room of the main building. The room was decorated in a style I have since seen all across Kenya – hard backed couches with hard cushions sinking to the ground pushed to the walls; large low tables centered in the room, nowhere near the couches; calendars hanging on the walls in no particular order, turned to the wrong month, 2012, 2013, 2014; a framed picture (or two) of a very creamy-skinned, blonde-haired Jesus; another framed image: Jomo Kenyata, the current president.

We waited on the couches for a few minutes, slightly shivering in the unexpected 65 degree weather, quietly taking in our surroundings.

The director of the institution, a Kenyan woman, came back to the room, 4 other woman following in her wake. Carrying large insulated containers, they greeted us, slight smiles and waves. Another woman came in with plates and forks and napkins. In this way, they set the table. Crowding the food on the large, faux-polished wood table, we were thrown earthy, warm scents: beans, hovering in some unknown broth; piles of mutton, bone and fat together in a rough sauce; chard – sikumawiki – greens chopped fine by old knives, the scent of the dirt still on them; rice, big chunks, cooked in who-knows-what oil; ugali, a corn mush, rounded into its container, brown. 

A feast of fellowship set before us. We filled our plates with too much to fit into our stomachs, the polite response. The response showing them that we realized what work had been put into our meal – woman and girls working all day for our 20 minutes of eating.

Thank you, God, for food: the community it brings and the meaning it can provide.



My Happy Place

The mountains of western North Carolina are green as green can be. The leaves of the pines and the oaks, seem to shimmer with life; small, large, yellow, red, long, and wide. Blowing in the wind, the branches seem to flaunt their position as resident ‘home of the birds.’

Small creeks meander through the rough hills and rounded earth, bending rocks and feeding trees. Trout hop up the streams, powerful fins directly serving their precious lives. Deer wander into the shallow waters, hooves carefully navigating the smooth, slippery stones underfoot.

Humans feigning animal instinct, with domestic pets, pick their way through the bramble, attempting the quiet of the creatures in their home. We walk in the waters of the creek, upsetting the stream more than our deer brothers and sisters.

And the creatures, they tolerate the humans. We like to kill their trees and still they shade me. Those deer, we trample their grass and still they watch me carefully as I wander in their home, their ushagoo, their home-home, the heart-home.

The heart of the woods is the shared life of the cosmic Creator. The shared life that is in me and you and the caterpillars and the Pileated Woodpecker biting on the bird feed out the window.

the sky and the trees
are reflected
in the still waters

staring down
at the lake
my eye
in and out of focus
the edges blurring
water and sky
like paints

the fish gather in groups
their fins fluttering in the
endless lake of a clouded
early morning

they swim through
the murky upside down reef of
pines and perennial giants

what is this
wonder-filled world,
I say to my God above,
where fish breathe water
and my sky,
my reflection rests
on their backs –
we are all here

My place is here in the mountains – where the heart of the Creator is fiery bright, animals coexisting, and me, coexisting.


{The Slums in Rainy Season}

The world smells
new this evening
and I wonder,
is this the fruit
of privilege?

When it rains, do
they smell the
ozone, or the mud
of excrement flowing
past their toes?

Do the little ones,
their arms just-bone
and shirts sagging,
run in the rain by
choice, or do they
run for cover?

Do I only dance
in the rain because I
know when I sleep
I will be dry?

Do I only turn my
face to the sky
because I know my
well-fed body will
keep me warm?

I rejoice and
the yellow blooms
rejoice when it rains.

Do the women
in run down colors
or do they bend
their heads to
the cold drops?

I do not
I just sit

in my warm
vehicle and
watch rain fall
on my
raincoat-clad arm.