Some things old are new again. This phrase, so out of date, “I’ll have what you are serving,” makes my heart skip with joy. Aah, to eat what you are served. How fine. How civilized. Food is, after all, an offering, requesting an extension of trust, a bridge crossed. The suspicions of childhood put to rest. Ha! Could I be more deluded? And I’m not just talking about the under 21 crowd.
“Please don’t dissect your food,” I say to my son and his friends. Please don’t disassemble it. That piece of bread you are poking full of holes? The earth grew the wheat, the wheat was harvested, turned to flour, carried to the bakery, baked into bread, packaged, carried, sold, brought home by me with the money I earned, unwrapped, made into a sandwich, carried to the table and given to you. Please don’t disassemble it. “Please don’t poke it full of holes.” Eyes rolling around the table. Sheesh, mom. And guys, that’s just the bread, for your information.
What would I like in the new year? To hear, “I’ll have what you are serving,” or simply benefit from its practice.
Could I not have to make picnic sandwiches with everything tasty on the side – mayonnaise, mustard, horseradish, pepper? Would it be all right if I chose your bread for you? Could you trust me a teensy bit? Could I put the green stuff ON the sandwich. And maybe go wild with a little onion? And would you please, please, please say, “Oh, thank you. Delish!” and eat it up? It’s an old-fashioned notion, I know, and sounds so fresh and new again. Here! Here!
Peace in the New Year. Starting at the table.
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The Lunch Encounter 