On Bread & Wine

The books that I love the most make me want to write – they make me swim in words and images, and beg me to jump in. They call me to tell stories, to grab a notebook and try to make a little sense of the messy world around me with my fingers and a pen.

Shauna Niequist's new book, Bread & Wine, made me want to write and cook. Write and make grocery lists. Write and mince garlic, splash olive oil, and bake bread. And of course, it made me a little hungry too.

Just as Shauna describes over and over in her book – memories and food are interconnected. "There's an intimacy in the meeting of one's needs and the filling of one's stomach, that is necessarily tied to the heart," she writes. And so it seems fitting that I began the book in New Mexico, reading aloud on our sisters getaway weekend, as we drove through the desert mountains. This was a trip where a meal wasn't just food, but an event, a chance for four sisters – who are often too busy running after kids, running to grab this, or to take care of that –  to sit down and really talk, really taste. We raved over the flavors chiles and limes in an unforgettable Latin-inspired seafood stew, ate down to the crumbs of a feta, chicken, and pesto pizza, and then moments later ducked into an adorable little French cafe in Santa Fe to sip café au lait and share fruit tarts and chocolate mousse cake.

I finished the book on another trip, nestled (or lodged, rather) in the backseat of the car, trying to keep the baby calm and the boys' DVDs rolling, as we drove home from a spring break vacation in Myrtle Beach through an April rainstorm.  It was more of a sweatshirt and sand bucket week than a swimsuit and sunscreen week, and we also – just for fun – mixed in a couple bouts of a stomach virus for Tim and I, and our little Levi continued his Spring Break tradition of checking out the local urgent care center (bronchitis, again). But, minus those couple of days of the stomach bug, we ate really well – we packed our own Oberon and Jack's salsa for happy hour on the deck, and found a fresh, local seafood market and blackened salmon, sauteed fresh shrimp in butter and garlic and tossed it with feta and dill. Our chief goal of the trip was to pull away a bit, to slow down long enough for walks with no destination in mind, to let the little ones dig and putz and get sand in every crevice. And, while I enjoyed a couple good meals out, I treasure those meals in our condo kitchen more – the therapy of cooking with no schedule, no where to rush off to after dinner.

And like a good meal, I had no desire to race through this book. I enjoyed reading it in morsels, digesting the stories, tearing up at the essays that resonated deeply with me. Maybe because we're in the same place in life – mothers of little boys – I felt a kinship not just with the author, but with the community of women who gather around her table, with the cooking club she meets with each month. And I loved ending the chapters with a recipe – playing it through in my mind, thinking of when and why I might try it out.

On the plane home from Albuquerque, I handed my sister-in-law, Danielle, the book immediately after I finished the chapter, "Hungry," saying, "Read this, just read this." I felt so relieved, so validated as Shauna wrote about hunger and shame. I heard myself when she wrote, "I've always been hungry. Always. I remember being hungry, as a small child, as an adolescent girl, as an adult, and just after I locate those feelings and memories of hunger, in my peripheral vision another thing buzzes up, like a flash of heat or pain: shame." This chapter, like all of the book, is not just about food. It's not just about eating. There is so much more tied in up in feeding ourselves, in feeding others, than just the physical, than just ingredients. Through the collection of essays, Shauna delves into cooking, yes, but also all that happens when we come to the table. It's a book about being vulnerable, about making space and a place for the communion that happens around a dinner table.

When a lifelong friend came over this weekend, she willingly volunteered her patience as  I stirred, stirred, stirred my first attempt at risotto – the dish Shauna calls her "go-to entertaining meal." It was the ultimate comfort meal – not just because of its creamy goodness, but because of the conversation while I cooked, while we grabbed our bowls of steaming bowls and nestled in on the couch to keep talking. It reminded me of what Shauna writes in the chapter "Come to the Table":

Most of the time I eat like someone's about to steal my plate, like I can't be bothered to chew or taste or feel, but I'm coming to see that the table is about food, and it's also about time. It's about showing up in person, a whole and present person, instead of a fragmented, frantic person, phone in one hand, to-do list in the other...The table is where time stops. It's where we look people in the eye, where we tell the truth about how hard it is, where we make space to listen to the whole story, not the textable sound bite.

I'm not trained in any way but trial and error, but I love the kitchen. I love to experiment, to feed others. My grandma has shown me, my entire life, how you fill people up when you get them together and say, "Come on, let's eat." Shauna's book made me want to keep cooking – to make dinner a priority even when the baby is stuck to my legs and my preschooler and first grader are begging for snacks. It made me want to send out more invitations – to invite friends over to eat, to maybe even start my own cooking club – a group of women willing to experiment in the kitchen together.  This book made me want to keep telling stories, and to invite more people in, to see entertaining and dining not as something you do to impress or get it right, but to make people feel welcome, loved, and filled in the belly and the heart.

Let me know when you've read it, and when we can get together to talk about it over dinner.