39. Savor

I’ve always considered myself to have a farmer’s sensibility toward food. For generations my family grew much of what we ate, first for our livelihood and then because it was affordable, and we believed it tasted better. We rarely ate at restaurants while growing up. We couldn’t afford to, and it wasn’t a part of our culture. When Eric moved to Minneapolis from California in 1992, he was shocked at the dearth of good restaurants here but was amazed at the quality of our grocery stores. People cook in Minnesota, and there is a strong tradition of gathering for meals in homes and in churches. Of course, much of that has changed in the almost 30 plus years since Eric arrived. The restaurant scene has exploded, and Minneapolis has become known as a food city. Still, many of our restaurants have their roots in farming and foraging.

I have enormous respect for my cultural heritage and a fondness for its traditions. But I no longer live on the two acres where I grew up. I live in an apartment. I have traveled throughout the nation over the course of my career, and I traveled more of the world than I ever would have imagined, thanks to Eric. Through that travel I’ve learned a lot about others and about myself. I have come to know and understand where I’m from, but only after getting to know other places. And along the way I’ve learned that my own history has been illuminated by the histories of others. Interestingly, much of this learning has come through broadening my exposure to, and my experience with, food.

I have said that I eat food and Eric enjoys cuisine, but the truth is that I now do both. I have a deeper appreciation for my own food heritage and a wild enthusiasm for the cuisines of Louisiana and the world beyond. I was always perplexed by how Eric’s family talked about what they were going to make for dinner while they were still eating lunch. Now I find myself joining the conversation. It took almost 30 years to get to this point, and much of it was a long process of understanding (and removing) my internal barriers to what food represents.

A common story from people who move to Minneapolis from other cities is that it is hard to break in. People here are very friendly (we’re famous for “Minnesota Nice”), but we are content with the close families and friends we have maintained from as far back as elementary school. We’ve built our networks from the inside, and until recently there hasn’t been much of a vibrant street life. The city is full of great neighborhoods and parks that are surprisingly safe, and we all greet each other warmly, but we then go home. There’s a strong sense of community, and we are always here for our neighbors when needed, but we’re pretty much in our homes otherwise, and some of us are working in our gardens.

A former colleague of mine, Tullia, who grew up in the Seventh Ward of New Orleans once told me that New Orleans is the only city in America where “being Black” doesn’t mean “not being white”. It’s a city that has Blackness baked into it. It’s in the music, and in the language and in the food. In a city where Eric’s parents had to prove that they were both white before they could marry, everything you see on the menus in New Orlean’s restaurants is infused with the history of every race, ethnicity and color that has passed through its ports.

Minnesota is known for opening its doors to immigrants and refugees. Over time, the waves of immigration have changed from Northern Europe to Southeast Asia and Eastern Africa, and we’ve created agencies and programs to support these new Americans. But in the months that followed the death of George Floyd, as I considered how to confront my own history of inherent racism and privilege, I wondered how the structures of welcome had fallen short of true hospitality. I wondered why a city like New Orleans, with its history of slavery, became a place where a black woman felt that she belonged, while a city like Minneapolis witnessed a Black man die at the hands of police.

Hospitality is a big, powerful idea. It is the open and generous reception and entertainment of guests, be they familiar or strangers. It can be expressed as a hearty, locally-sourced meal, but in its fullest sense it is a commitment to justice. And it always means an open door as well as a place at the table. Ultimately, I believe it requires us to reconstruct the power imbalance between host and guest, where one person sets the rules and the other complies with them. I’m not talking about manners. I’m talking about respect. A truly respectful host eliminates unnecessary distinctions when they extend an invitation of generosity.

Over the past 30 years I have sat across the table from Eric thousands of times. In our dining ritual I have the role of setting the table while Eric prepares the meal. We use cloth napkins to signify that what is happening is important. Our table is usually set for two, but we have entertained countless others. There have been family and friends, neighbors and work colleagues, teachers and artists, politicians and strangers, and each time we host I recall the verse from Hebrews 13 where it is suggested that by showing hospitality to strangers we may entertain angels unawares. Over the course of those countless meals, Eric has taught me the gift and the art of hospitality, and the true meaning of generosity. Whether it is just the two of us, or entertaining a crowd, he is both thoughtful and intentional as he plans the menu and prepares the meal, with me or our guests in mind. Beyond the meal, he creates an environment where everyone is made to feel valued and cherished. While the meal may be casual, guests are always made to feel important and welcome.

It’s said that the kitchen is the center of the home. For Eric and me, it’s also the center of our relationship. It is in our kitchen where I learned that to open my palate to a world beyond my own, I first had to open my heart and mind. The everyday experience of sharing a meal is an act of mutuality. It is both a literal and symbolic practice of respecting others and accepting their gifts. And if we can achieve this at our own table, there is no reason why we can’t extend it into our broader communities and every individual who is a part of it.

As for me, I am grateful. Grateful for the privilege of having food at the table. Grateful for the hands and heart that prepare it. Grateful to both taste and savor the history lessons inherent in each bite.

A Dinner Menu for Steve

The husband of Chris’ sister Fanny, Steve, died from esophageal cancer, a disease both devastating and heartbreaking. Steve was a quiet but loving father and husband, by all accounts. My own interactions with him at countless family meals were always pleasant, albeit somewhat limited. I was always struck by how very polite he was, never once leaving our house without searching me out to thank me, telling me how much he appreciated everything.

As the cancer progressed and his condition deteriorated, the toll it was taking on both Steve and Fanny became increasingly obvious. Our hearts broke for them, but there didn’t seem much we could do to help other than spend time with them. So, although we had seldom (if ever) socialized with them as just a foursome, we invited the two of them to a dinner, hoping it might offer some distraction. Fanny accepted but reminded us that Steve’s appetite was compromised and that many foods had lost their flavor to him. He couldn’t tolerate many things that he used to like. We understood that she was letting us know that we shouldn’t expect too much, as hosts. Chris and I worked on our menu together, and we decided that simplicity was the best option, going for straightforward dishes that were familial, timeless and definitely not fussy.

When the evening arrived the weather was delightfully cooperative and so we set the table on our screened porch. Chris kept it casual, but he didn’t hesitate to make the table beautiful with candles and flowers. We were forewarned that we could expect the evening to be cut short if Steve suddenly started to feel tired or unwell, but the mood remained light and easy and Steve was uncommonly chatty. He even ate everything that he was served. With relish. Fanny’s shoulders seemed to relax that evening, and I watched her sit back relieved that Steve was truly distracted and fully engaged. For at least an evening, they both seemed to put cancer out of mind and Fanny appeared grateful that she had a much-needed break from being always responsible for his care. We realized that one simple meal was something we could do again for them, so we invited them back several times over the next months before he became too sick. At each dinner we stuck to the exact same menu, with Fanny’s blessing, in the hope that it would have the same effect on Steve.

In the scheme of things, it is usually a very small thing to cook for others. We learned, however, that the preparation of a simple meal could give Fanny and Steve a much-needed respite in a time of uncertainty and hardship. As you can see from the menu below, each course was straightforward. But it really wasn’t about the food, even though Steve did seem to keep finding pleasure in the dishes we served. I think he was nourished more by the familial embrace, and I know Fanny recognized the expression of love those dinners represented. I saw it in her eyes as she hugged Chris good-bye after each meal. ~Eric

Menu for Fanny and Steve

Salted Cashews and Pistachios

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Green Salad of Mâche and Granny Smith Apples

with a sweetened lime vinaigrette

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Roasted Chicken with Rosemary and Lemon

Broiled Potatoes and Pan-Sautéed Green Beans

* * *

Triple Berry Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream