The Time We Ate Alone

I sit across from my mother; her curly hair is disheveled and one of her curls lies gently over her eye. A drip of sweat runs from her forehead, and her upper lip is moist with perspiration. Her blue eyes look at me, and she smiles in her gentle way. She is wearing her blue and white striped apron and her homemade dress with the colorful patterns and buttons down the side. My brother and sister are sitting beside me on either side. My brother is delighted by the pile of brown rice that fills his plate. He smiles and laughs in anticipation. My sister lowers her head to smell the fresh beans and vegetables that adorn her plate. I’m already thinking about dessert. I can smell the apples and cinnamon baking in the oven. My mom has prepared my favourite dessert, an all-American classic, apple cobbler. I am my happiest around food; the love I feel for the food is only outdone by my love for my mother and my siblings. We don’t say prayers in my house, but gratitude fills the room and the ghosts of all our ancestors surround us and bless us with their presence. Every bite is life, enjoyed by the dead and living in equal measure. They are all with us. My mom has been gone for twenty years now, but the same radiant image of her transcends time and space. I have tried to give my children the gift she gave me. The heart of a home is the kitchen, where love is manifest in the sweat and labor of preparing the food for our loved ones. The kitchen is where beauty, art, culture, tradition, and family all come together in no other way. For me, there is nothing as powerful as the moments of truth and love that transpire around a kitchen table with family and friends. This sentiment is shared by many, I asked just some about those experiences. Delphine from New York writes, “Our meals are about sharing food and thought, laughter as much as possible… and honesty. It's one time and place every day where we can unload and know we all recognize each other's presence. We hold space with no judgment and it’s the most natural thing I've ever experienced as an adult.” Stephanie from Sydney, Australia writes, “Our family eats together at least four times a week. I believe this creates trust and connection for all of us. It's knowing that those around the table have your back no matter what. I grew up always eating at the table, and some of my favorite memories happen around the kitchen table.” For the more well-adjusted among us a solitary meal can also be enjoyed as a loving communion with the self or perhaps with God. For many of us, though, the absence of joy or connection is made all the more pronounced by the passage of each meal. Bouts of loneliness are sometimes passed with solitary dinners and tears that fall from our eyes, causing salt to run into the mouth and add flavor to what seems like a tasteless meal with no one there to share it with. Eileen Khouw describes herself as an Australian born Chinese single woman. Her parents were refugees from Indonesia. When she grew up and moved away from her parents, she would sit at the table alone to eat. She recalled that for months she thought there was something just not right about eating alone. She thought of her mother and sister sitting alone in their own homes and she missed them. …