Thankful for...

Food, Beautiful Food

“By what miracle

does this cracker

made from Kansas wheat,

this cheese ripened in French caves,

this fig grown and dried near Ephesus,

turn into Me?

My eyes.

My hands.

My cells, organs, juices, thoughts?

Am I not then Kansas wheat

and French cheese

and Smyrna figs?

Figs, no doubt,

the ancient Prophets ate?”

Judith Morley (Earth Prayers)

Do you ever think about the food you eat? Where it came from, who grew it, how it was made? In these days when very few people grow their own food, we think that food comes from the supermarket, and the choice we make is simply in which supermarket we will shop. I am sitting here with my cup of coffee, newly brewed in my coffee maker and dressed up with sweetener and cream, and I haven't a clue as to where any of it originated. I do remember going to a butterfly preserve in Guatemala, walking through woods on the way to see the butterflies. Growing along side the path, in addition to sparse shrubs and undergrowth, were spindly, head-high plants that looked something like high-bush blue berries. On them hung green, almond shaped fruit about the size of Spanish olives. Our guide pointed out that they were “coffee trees”. They weren't growing in groves with wide lanes between them, but out in the woods. I remember thinking at the time how difficult it would be to harvest enough of them to make even a cup of coffee, much less the vast quantities consumed the world over. I'm sure there are coffee groves, but seeing them in their native state gave me a new appreciation for the work that goes into bringing me my morning joe.

When I lived in Raleigh, I had friends who owned a farm out in the country. They, like me, were toss-offs from the hippy era, who had settled into respectable jobs—he with the State Bureau of Investigation, she as a Speech Therapist—but hadn't quite been able to give up the “live off the land” notions of the 1960's and 70's. They raised horses for riding, and goats, with babies that could walk the top of a split-rail fence, and a steer named “T-bone,” lest they forget his purpose. I loved going to their home and communing with the animals, but I was always shocked that, when the time came, they took their livestock to the slaughter house and explained how they wanted them dressed out. I think of T-bone whenever I cut into a juicy steak.

I am fortunate to live in a country where most people have enough to eat. But, that is not something that everyone can take for granted, even in America. Today, when you sit down to a meal, give thanks for the hands who grew and harvested it. It is a miracle that food grown in Chili, France, or Argentina can, within a few days, be consumed in Alabama. Let us be ever mindful of those among us who do not have enough to eat, and give generously to community food banks, shelters and world food programs.

                                        In the Spirit,

                                            Jane