I grew up with family dinner, sharing an evening meal with my parents and sister almost every night. Laughing, crying, turning up a nose at undesired foods. Eating, talking, being present with one another, in good moods and bad. It was strange to me that classmates would eat alone before rushing off to a sports practice or other activity. Maybe I was never busy enough, but even with anything from rehearsals for school plays, house league soccer, or my sister’s lacrosse or rowing, this shared meal was a regular occurrence and an integral part of my routine. Even now, when I visit home, whether alone or with someone else, I continue to eat dinner with my parents, returning to the same table to gather and converse over a meal.
As my situation has changed and I have found a home in Chicago, shared meals have remained a presence. There were definitely inconsistencies while I was in college, but for the past four years, I have been part of a crew on a television show. Due to the hours, I’d usually end up eating breakfast and lunch on set (if not dinner on those especially long days). I would get to set in advance of my pre-call, make my way to catering, and ease into the day with a few other early arrivals- our unofficial breakfast club. Six hours into the day (usually…) and for only 30 minutes, lunch posed the challenge of either eating or trying to squeeze in a nap. Yet, even on exhausting days, I’d often go to lunch anyways and sit with the rest of the camera crew. We’d spend the whole day with each other- 12, 14 hours on set- but mealtimes had a special sense of community. I loved being able to sit with these people, to have a brief moment to relax and recharge. We shared this daily meal, not only eating together, but it was also a time of conversation and laughter.
In the years I have worked on the show, some of these people have become close friends. Now confined in my apartment alone, I am especially missing the meals shared with these people- discussing the day to come over breakfast burritos and oatmeal, cackling hysterically at yet another stupid (i.e. hilarious) bit as we spread our plates and silverware on tables set up in that same church basement in Canaryville or the classroom in the carpenter’s union building. These hours spent with co-workers and friends, sharing meals with one another, day after day and season after season, have become their own iteration of family dinner.
I don’t know when I’ll go back to work or how my work might change in the wake of this pandemic. I don’t know when I will next go home to see my parents. But I look forward to once again being in community with others, sharing conversation, food, and simply being present with one another.
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Food occupies a particular space in my mind nowadays. It’s a stressor- the worry of overeating or not eating “right,” along with the anxiety of seeing empty shelves in the grocery store or the annoyance of not finding that one item on the list (yeast!!). But it’s also a comfort- making something I’ve been craving (blueberry muffins this week, pancakes the last) to discovering a recipe online that begs re-creation. Over the years, I’ve found that I enjoy cooking and it’s been nice to take the time to savor a meal- from the preparation to the consumption. Food is also nostalgic. In this time of isolation, food reminds me what I miss- a specific person, a dish from a favorite restaurant, the idea of just being out with other people…
Trips to the grocery store have become something of a special occasion. Aside from neighborhood walks, grocery stores are the only public spaces I’ve visited. I have been trying to limit trips to the store to every two weeks, which has necessitated precise planning. I’ve always been a list-maker and meal planner when cooking for myself, but the gathering of recipes and the crafting of a shopping list have become carefully executed tasks. As the two week mark approaches, there’s an excitement for what I’ll cook in the next cycle, what special treat I’ll purchase ingredients for. Yesterday I woke up early to get to the grocery store when it opened at 7AM. With my 3rd draft list in hand, I scoured the aisles for the desired items. There was the surprise of seeing flour in stock, the excitement of a fancy brand of oat milk on sale, and the persistent strangeness of being surrounded by people in masks and intercom messages urging people to keep a distance from each other.
It’s funny that basically the only place where I get any face to face contact with other people is the grocery store and everyone surrounding me, everyone I speak to, is a stranger. I see my friends and family on video chats or hear their voices on the phone, but the most direct human contact- that kind that has become both fraught with danger and so precious- is with people I don’t even know. In a time where everyone is yearning for connection, for touch, for being present with one another, it feels odd to share this with a stranger. Maybe it’s a lesson in not taking advantage of even these smallest interactions or finding the value in engaging with someone unknown. Or I’m just starved for human contact after being alone in my apartment for weeks and trying my best to smile with my eyes at a cashier, attempting to communicate the smallest gesture of gratitude and greeting.