Sharing Food

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In my culture, sharing food is important. 

No matter how difficult the time, no matter how terrible the argument, no matter how little we have to say. Every night, we sit together at the dinner table and eat together at the dinner table. 

When you share food, that makes you family. 

And even though I haven’t seen the peeling laminate of my childhood dinner table in years, haven’t felt the need to choke down my food under the sweltering anger of my mother, haven’t seasoned my rice with tears, I still know the importance of eating together. 

Because when you share food, that makes you family. 

________

Recently, I met a girl. 

It was an open-air train, somewhat run-down and somewhat slow. The faux leather worn and peeling, the train creaking at strange joints. There were no assigned seats, and the train windows were fully open on every carriage. 

I met a girl on this train ride. We had no common language, but one might’ve supposed we were similar ages. She had round, imploring eyes, and I had flat, wary ones. She had curls in her brown hair and I had waves in my black hair. She had a blue duffle bag, and I had a yellow backpack. She smiled at me, and I smiled with her. 

And we sat together, watching the scenery pass us by. She stood up at one point, beckoning me to follow her. I think I blinked, and she took my hand, leading me to the end of the train. She waved at the security guard, and he let us, these two strange girls, pass through.

And we take turns hanging off the railing, waving to the mountains and the trees, watching the train tracks disappear. A recklessness, a purity in our childlike dance with danger. The wind blows laughter into us, and there’s a moment where the sun breaks through the nimbus. And we point, excitement in both our gestures, looking at each other as if we’ve known our entire lives would lead to this. 

And we returned to our seats shortly after. I knew the train ride would be a few hours long, so I had bought a packet of crisps. And the convenience store had had a 2-for-1 promotion on chocolate milk. As I pulled out the matching bottles, I extend one to her. She blinked, and I take her hand, closing her fingers around the cold glass.

She looked at it, like some foreign object. And I looked at her, much in the same way. 

And I wondered who she was. I wondered where she was from, what might be the cause of her travels. She didn’t appear to have a phone, she didn’t appear to speak English. But we clinked our bottles together. Cold, chocolatey richness in the stifling heat. 

And I crack open my shiny packet of crisps, tomato and lime flavoured. They seem foreign, in this strangely olden environment. And I’m warmed by how naturally she reaches for them when I offer, and how we both carefully work our way through savouring each crisp. The salty, tangy, nutty flavour that leaves its dust on my fingers and my heart. 

________

Recently, I met a boy. 

I met him as part of a study group. I had arrived late, lost in my thoughts whilst at the pool earlier that day. I got there, likely still smelling a bit of chlorine and apologetic for missing the conversation. And no one really minded, except myself. 

And the boy I had met previously, but perhaps was not so familiar with. Not strangers, not friends. Yet he asked me if I would share his ice-cream coupon. His question, light with innocence, my nod, heavy with implication.

And I wondered if he knew that I started watching him after that moment. I wondered if he knew he was then always on the cusp of my periphery. 

It was unfair of me to suppose more than I did. But it is undeniable. And we sat together, a quartet of easy conversation, with the two of us holding our cups of softening vanilla ice-cream. A sweet creaminess which melted through my tongue and into my soul.

________

Recently, I went on a hike. 

Two days, one night. The day bore down with sunlight, refuge sought only under dappling foliage. But nights on a mountaintop are unsheltered, privy to the wind’s whims. 

There was a fireplace, crackling away with the brightness of energy. Encircled by mats and logs, emptying, as one by one, people retired to their tents. 

I love the smell of burning wood. Thick and stunning. And the fire was a welcome heat, warding off the dark. Beauty, in irrationality.

And as I sat on mats, stargazing, someone sat next to me. He offered me a cup of freshly brewed tea. And as we sat together, speaking of much yet of nothing, I marvelled at the delicious heat of the cup he had given me. A warmth which steeped through my fingers, into my flesh.

________

I like to cook. 

I’ve always somewhat liked it. It was a necessity, which I ended up enjoying the rhythms of. It’s a craft I’ve since practiced, and may even say I am proud of. But my meals are cold with solitude, eaten in the accompaniment of a screen. 

I often think that someday it might be nice to eat with someone.

Because when you share food, that makes you family.