Morning of November 6th, 2024 - By Mary K
Food—at this time of abundant harvest, as we arrive at the season when the days grow shorter and we descend into the long winter nights—the food we eat and share presents an opportunity to reflect on the year. This election season is exhausting, and as this is written, votes are counted, deliberated, and contested. We may feel a great, shared fear that can deplete us to the core, uncertainty lingering over us. As of this morning, November 6, 2024, the outcomes remain unclear. We may feel this fear not just for ourselves, but for our communities, families, and friends.
Yet even in this space and time, there is strength, hope, and security we can sow. We can connect with loved ones, nurture friendships through gifts of food, share stories and trials of the season, and feel the glow of pride when a friend thanks us for sharing a fresh tomato-sauce-laden pasta (or perhaps the last fresh zucchini noodles), a delicate and complex butternut squash pie or soup, warm spiced caramelized delicata squash rounds, or a sweet and spicy melon jam made with this season’s peppers and not-quite-ripe melons saved from the frost.
Perhaps we’ve delighted in the creations of others, like a simple, ultra-healthy garbanzo salad with dill fronds and grated carrot, dressed in oil—a clean combination that leaves the body feeling full, energized, refreshed, and content.
There’s something grounding about a meal made with food we’ve grown ourselves.
Beyond the usual comparison of the homegrown tomato and its A-grade (looking) grocery counterpart. Oh homegrown tomato, whose juice captures the complex flavors of the soil it grew from and it’s neighboring plants—companionable onions, parsley, oregano, and basil (ok maybe just the basil, and possibly the oregano, but the others deter pests!)—who can be counted on to knock the store-bought tomato out of the running, reminding us that it’s truly what’s inside that counts—and we can literally ingest, and process, that truth.
When we eat what we’ve grown, it connects us to the seasonality of food, grounds us in the earth we cultivate, and links us to those we garden with or grow food for. It also connects us to the countless life forms we encounter while tending the soil, and the plants grown for food and for pollinators—our insect friends and allies who help maintain the balance of our little corner of biodiversity. This, in turn, connects us to the beautiful, complex cooperative of farmers.
In the coming weeks, as we share meals with loved ones, friends, and community, and enjoy the literal fruits of our labors in our daily moments, we find a kind of solace and strength in these connections. There is liberation in that. There is lasting security in that.
