The Food River
Coffee, almost daily, brings it on, the sense of joining a great coffee river that reaches to Ethiopia; reaches into the kitchen when I was eight and the adults were about to play Rook after dinner and enjoy each other until late; reaches to the city where my oldest son lives and may be making coffee, or perhaps walks with a tiny precious Future Coffee Drinker toward a much-loved coffee shop; reaches out to Main Street in Paris (KY) and over to the Bread Box on West Sixth in Lexington, where coffee wizards are applying heat and time to make a drink that would have gladdened hearts in 1614 in Persia.
Savoring coffee, I step into connection with something so long on the earth, so welcome to humans across hundreds of years, so leaned on and relied on by people whose food I might have a hard time sharing but whose drink I cherish, that I am aware how glad I am to be human, to be one of all humans, known and unknown, to be kin to those who have lifted the cup or glass to take a heartening sip of coffee.
Food and drink are like that for me, a ribbon of connection to life itself. Washing lettuce, smelling bacon, eating a ripe berry will anchor and satisfy people born in 2614, much as they ground me and provide a sense of abundance today. Me here, they there; we are close enough to touch each other.
The notion of history changes when food is concerned. Food is not in the past. It is not in the future. Food—rhymes with Dude—abides.