Last Saturday, a sizable slice of our PhD program gathered to share a meal. The only obligation was to bring something edible from wherever we had called home. When I went to the grocery store for ingredients for my wild rice casserole, I ran into one of my fellow students. He hung up his phone explaining, "That was my mom giving me my recipe." I held up my phone displaying my own mom's texted recipe. We went down our separate isles guided by some not so distant apron strings. I spent the rest of the afternoon taking my time to prepare a dish my father made every year for deer camp. I didn't have the venison to pair with, but I could all but taste it as I watched the surface bubble in the oven. My head replayed my favorite pictures from those chilled November weekends back in Wisconsin. Soon enough, the dish was piping hot, and I made my way to the party.
Everyone congregated later night with warm dishes in hand. We started the meal by explaining the item we had brought. There was templeque (a Puerto Rican coconut pudding) made with Grandma's instructions over the phone, the steaming Southern New Year's dish of hoppin john, and wiener boats (hot dogs, mashed potatoes, and cheese goes a long way) to name a few. Each dish had a story, a family member, or a memory mixed in. We were saying grace.
Conversation darted to less nostalgic topics once everyone dug in. Still, I couldn't help thinking about when and where everyone in this eclectic group had brought their dishes from. Each bite had a dash of something or from someone's past. It's amazing how food brings people together, both to those around them and those they have shared the same meal with in the past. Meals can be a communion in the most essential sense.
Everyone congregated later night with warm dishes in hand. We started the meal by explaining the item we had brought. There was templeque (a Puerto Rican coconut pudding) made with Grandma's instructions over the phone, the steaming Southern New Year's dish of hoppin john, and wiener boats (hot dogs, mashed potatoes, and cheese goes a long way) to name a few. Each dish had a story, a family member, or a memory mixed in. We were saying grace.
Conversation darted to less nostalgic topics once everyone dug in. Still, I couldn't help thinking about when and where everyone in this eclectic group had brought their dishes from. Each bite had a dash of something or from someone's past. It's amazing how food brings people together, both to those around them and those they have shared the same meal with in the past. Meals can be a communion in the most essential sense.