"The Spirit of Food"

While Courtney was in town, we went to an event hosted by The Other Journal, "an online quarterly publication that promotes vibrant discourse at the intersections of theology and culture," called The Spirit of Food.  It was an evening dedicated to readings and conversations about how we interact with and think about food - something that I, and T, have been growing more and more conscious of.  I know, I know - we live in Seattle.  We're liberal, tree-hugging, hippie granola people.  I know.  But aside from going vegetarian just because it's hip (which neither of us have done), or eating organic because you'll be cursed for eternity in Seattle if you don't (which we also haven't done), there is something that I'm realizing is really significant about how I approach food and the ways that reflects how I think about myself, my community, and even God.

While the majority of the time I sit around wondering if God is even around, when I think about God as if he were around, I know that he would have something to say about how our culture deals with food.  Microwaves.  McDonald's.  Lean Cuisine.  Canned meat.  I list these things not because I can step back, point my finger, and berate you for using, purchasing, or consuming such things; I list them because I  know that I love them.  And they have sucked joy, savoring, and communal dining out of the way I eat.

I have never really thought much about food being a spiritual thing, but as I heard last Thursday at this event, Jesus chose a meal to be remembered by.  Not a hajj to Jerusalem, not lighting something on fire, not building an idol.  A meal.  He spent time with his disciples, prostitutes, and tax collectors; with sinners and Pharisees alike - eating.  Drinking.

Now I realize that this probably sounds like I have this tuned wavelength to God and Jesus - thinking about them all the time and other lofty theological ideas.  Wrong.  These are brand new thoughts to me.  My spirituality has been deadened over time.  Deserted.  Desolate.

Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory

 I say this just to make the point that this is not normal thinking.  I don't know where this will lead or what the significance will be.  But I would like to share with you a passage from the introduction of The Spirit of Food.  Among other speakers that we heart at the event, we heard Leslie Leyland Fields, who compiled all 34 essays "on feasting and fasting toward God," read an excerpt of the introduction that she wrote for the book.  Leslie is an author, speaker, and professional editor who teaches Creative Non-Fiction at Seattle Pacific Univeristy.  I wish that you could hear and watch her read her own words - they are beautiful on paper, but even more rich coming from her lips.  I couldn't help but feel her passion and excitement over the completion of this project and what she hopes it will spark for its readers.

The season's first salmon hang headless in my daughter's hands, one fish in each, as she wlaks them up the hill to the house.  From the front steps, I can see their heft and length, the shine of their silvered scales, their shimmering backs.  I am anxious to hold them mystelf.  It is the first week of the commercial salmon fishery, a profession my children and husband have worked in nearly since birth.  For me, it's been thierty-three seasons here on this remonte Alaskan island. 

I grasp their tails from my daughter on the porch, slide their arm-length boies onto the counter-sized cutting board.  With one hand firm on the skin-thein armor, I begin to steak out the fish with the other.  The first cut almost makes me gasp as though I have cut my own finger - the flesh is deep carmine, so bright - is this my own blood?  I know this coor, can see it, even taste it in the sleep of memory.  How many slamon have I gutted and cleaned and portioned on the shore of my island, on this very cutting board these thrity-three years?  I keep slicking, the dissection so enlivening my senses I do not measure or make any attempt at uniformity.  How shall I cook it, this fish we have been waiting for all winter?  Shall I grill it with melted butter, minced garlic, and white wine, my favorite flavors?  No, for the first fish, something new, something untried and spontaneous, fitting this exact moment and these precise two fish.  I bgin with melted butter and minced garlic then riffle through my cupboard pulling down borwn sugar, a spicy pepper blend, parsley...formulating as my hands consider each potential spice, a slow idea of what I would aim for, yes, this time a sweet and spicy crust.

Even now, I couldn't say how many minutes to grill the fish.  I don't follow a clock when grilling.  I am not interest in creating a numerical formula for the safe and simplified replication of my attempts at perfection.  I stand and watch, testing the juices, whisking each piece off when the flesh begins to turn translucent.  Each piece on its own schedule.

...

While the food steams on the table, eight faces look at me expectantly, waiting for the signal for prayer.  "I'm going to do something a little different today," I say hesitant, knowing that multiple appetites are rumbling under the table and knowing how puny the spirit can feel before such need.

"This is the first salmon of the season.  You all know the tradition that fishermen kiss the first fish.  Anyone do that today?"  My oldest son rolls his eyes, wanting only to eat.  I hurry on.

"I'm going to read something before we start."

I pull my Bible onto the table, and before anyone can resist, I begin: "This is from the book of Job:

'But ask the animals and they will teach you,
     Or the bird of the air, and they will tell you;
     Or speak to the earth and it will teach you,
     Or let the fish of the sea inform you.
     Which of all these does not know
That the hand of the Lord has done this?
     In his hand is the life of every creature
     And the breath of all mankind.'"

Everyone listens, watching the food.  Then I pray aloud of all of us, that this season we will not forget this.  I want to say far more, to deliver a sermon, but I stop, knowing the wafers of fish on our tongues will deliver its own message.

We eat.  Faces are too close to the plates, forks are shoveling, heads lift with butter smeared on cheeks and crumbs lodged in beards.  Everyone talks with their mouth full; we tease each other; someone will have to yell to get the salad; at least one cup of iced tea will be spilled, and we'll run out of bread.  These are glorious, blessed feasts.

Leslie Leyland Fields, The Spirit of Food, xix - xxi.

I have yet to actually start this book, but I am excited for when I get the chance.  I think there are beautiful stories to be told about the honor that eating can hold in our lives - bringing us closer to one another and possibly to God.  

All this to say: eat, drink, and be merry.  Maybe we can, together, attempt to slow down, taste, savor, and enjoy the richness and fullness of food as it was intended to give us.