Our son, a college freshman, has been home for the last three weeks, for Christmas break. He's an easygoing young man, not hard to please. And he's pretty effortlessly fallen back into the old routine. He would of course, be free, if he so wished, to do all sorts of novel and interesting things: light a dozen roman candles, do some winter camping at the Lake Michigan dunes, fry up some bok choi in a wok. Or whatever. But the fact is, like most human beings, when he comes back home, he wants to do the same things he's always done: hang out in his room, read a book or two, answer questions on the Internet forum he's in charge of, and come downstairs in the afternoons and evenings to be sociable: to play Parcheesi with his mother, and maybe a little music with his dad. This year too, pursuant to the season, he helped to decorate the tree, and accompanied us to church on Christmas Eve, where he sang with us in the choir and allowed himself to be fussed over by various members of the congregation, who were happy to see him back. Then on Christmas day itself, as well as on New Year's Eve, he was with us at his grandparents' place, which is a cheerful yellow house just down the way (a geographical circumstance we perpetually bless). In the end, of course, now that he's eighteen, our son is the one that answers for his time, and not us. And yet isn't that where the deepest honor lies, of having him with us?: the fact that he's here NOT because he feels obliged to be, but because he really wants to be here? Values our company? Freely chooses to stay with us, spend time with us, just hang out with us?
Mind you, the food at Sunnyside is part of the attraction; he admits as much himself! There's a good cafeteria at school, where it's possible to eat a reasonably wholesome diet. Still, it's not the same; how could it be? Try finding peaches at a cafeteria like the peaches we canned with him way back in August; we've been bringing them up in pints and quart jars from the basement every five or six days, to slurp ragged and sweet from a bowl. Or try finding dills as zesty as the ones we serve here; canned (again) this past summer right here at Sunnyside. Or try coming up with a pie as delicious as the blueberry one he and his mother baked two days ago, with berries that have been waiting in the freezer since August to find their way into such a pie. No, it's impossible. And not just because of the ingredients, and not just because of culinary expertise here, though these do play their part. But because here at Sunnyside, family affection, generated by memory and shared experience, is bound up in the food itself. Take that away, and the food, no matter how fine, has lost some essential savor. Affection or its absence is tasted. This we know for certain.
Affection. I find myself coming to that word again and again, as I consider the future of the planet and how, if the beauty of our planet is to be sustained, and if human life itself is to remain richly viable, that future needs to be different than the present. Affection for the earth beneath our feet. Affection for the homes we inhabit. Affection for the other creatures of the earth. Affection for our neighbors. Affection for the architectural spaces that surround us. Affection for those we mingle with in our professional lives. Affection for our food. Affection. The thing about affection is that it's particular to a place or person. It's found amply in small things and in the presence of the unique, but gets bled out of whatever comes manufactured and standard. Its absence in our lives makes us feel alienated from one another and from our surroundings, but the expectation of its presence is what attracts us to the places where we are most likely to feel it. Most especially home.
My mother's cooking was one of the best things about going back home, when, as a college student, I got that opportunity. My mother was an adventurous cook, remarkably resourceful at using up what odds and ends were available in the refrigerator or the garden. Another way of saying this is to say she was a master of improvisation, which on the up-side, meant that whenever you sat down at the dinner table, you were in for something new and interesting, though on the down side, it also meant that some of her triumphs were essentially unrepeatable, because she herself never kept track: what herbs, what spices, how long did the onions fry? etc. But nowhere else could I get that cooking. Again, not so much because of her skill, though that was part of it. And not so much because of the ingredients themselves, which were often nothing special at all. But because, especially before I was married, nowhere other than in my mother's kitchen did I have a person so connected to me, who had herself trained my taste buds, and who of course cared about what I would like, and who, out of love for me, labored to please and surprise.
I would like so much to return to my mother's kitchen! Year after year, I still grieve the loss of that possibility. Yet at the same time I'm comforted by the thought that in some ways such a return really is possible--mostly by attending to the same principles that she attended as pilot of the counter-top and captain of the knives and spatulas and spoons: Cook with a sense of place and season, and of what you have on hand and available. Cook with affection for the ingredients. Cook with an affection for whoever is going to enjoy your the work of your hands. In short, cook your way home!
One final note: I need one more week of intense work to fully complete my new play "Myles to Go." So I ask for my readers' patience until the 14th of January, when I look forward to posting again. I'm aware that these breaks are not the conventional way to encourage reader loyalty! But I also believe that if part of the mission of 9-volt Nomad is to encourage others in the ways of simplicity and sanity, well, its writer needs to practice those arts as well! So, as we say here at 9-volt Nomad, one big thing at a time!
With affection, then, and until the 14th!
HBthing
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