–Will D. Campbell, on the tendency of Southerners to bring
If someone asked me what one of the best meals I ever had in my life was, I would have to say it was a plate of fried chicken, greens and pinto beans that I ate just after the graveside service for my grandmother several years ago. I don’t know who cooked it and I don’t know what made it taste so good. We’re all exhausted after funerals–so much ceremony, so many people, so much of both laughter and sadness–and maybe that created an appetite in me that would have found anything delicious. And there was certainly a lot to choose from, as is always the case after funerals. Neighbors, churchmembers, coworkers, the guy who delivers the mail, the kid who cut the grass, not to mention every cousin from the farthest branches of the family tree… everyone is there and everyone brings food. The plates wrapped in aluminum foil, the cassarole dishes and the pie pans stretch out in and endless line of quasi-sinful sustenance. And all of it is good.
I like the idea of sharing food as a way of expressing love, sympathy, companionship, whatever. It has deep roots in the church tradition of “breaking bread together.” It seems thoughtful in a way that a card or a potted plant only imitates. It recognizes something really profound, but really mundane– you just can’t do anything when you’re hungry. Not even manage your own grief. The food is, of course, impermanent… but so, so memorable.
I’ve had many good meals with family and friends already since I’ve been here. (A practice that I must curb post-haste!) I’m happy to have eased back in to this place where people feed each other emotionally by feeding them physically.
And I hope–I really hope–that my friends and family cook up a mean storm when I’m dead.