a meal

five o'clock rolls around and my stomach starts to grumble. grace comes to me asking for my id so she can eat in the caf as i drag myself away from my homework and into the kitchen.

i am in a good place to set the pattern for how i will live the rest of my life.
it's been two weeks now of cooking dinner each night from local or salvaged food. there is justice in what i eat and as of yet, i'm not even tired of it.

the tomato juices run between my fingers as i slice away their imperfections. Crumbs of bread drop to the floor on their way to the toaster. the cheese flakes under my knife.

food that is grown not from the alienation of migrant workers or the destruction of God's creation, but by the hard work of local farmers and the resurrection of the victims of our North American waste culture. there is nothing quite like it.

the smell of bread rising, or pumpkin soup boiling on the stove, or a kale, pepper and onion stir-fry waft out the kitchen door and fill the dorm hallway.

i did not decide to do this. i must do this. it's about renewing the relationship between myself and the land. about caring for the world that God entrusted to us. And about respecting all of God's creation, whether worker, plant, or animal.

the table is set for one or two. prayer begins the sacrament of fulfillment. conversations surround the mouthfuls of goodness.

for me the kitchen table was always the center of the community. it is only right that i am making it so again. food is about relationships and relationships are about food. a binary existence that is only complete.

the dishes pile up on the counter and it becomes a routine to not only cook for myself but, clean up after wards. and as i do, i become a part of the whole process of sustaining myself.

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