“I do NOT eat cheese unless seriously provoked!” –Ava Montesi

Greetings Dear Ones!

I have been obsessing about food lately. For one thing, I was originally scheduled to be in Florida last week, cooking for 100 hungry fiddlers and cellists attending the Mike Block String Camp. I was excited about taking my spice tote, knives, and pots on a plane and finding out how we would all fare. As fate had it instead, I spent the weekend moving into my dream home and surviving on Cheerios and Gatorade.

As far as the move goes, this is the story I want to tell: “Once upon a time, a gentle woman decided to move all of her belongings from one location (storage) to another (farm in VT). Everything went smoothly. Nothing got broken, not even blood vessels. The movers showed up and were so helpful. It was so relaxing. She knew where her keys were at all times. There was no Nor’ Easter hosing them like a fire hose as they unloaded in the dark—wait, it wasn’t dark! It happened all within the sunniest hours of the day. But no one got sunburned!” (Can’t you just hear the Disney orchestra swelling in the background, as little birds chirp sweetly, and the narrator—who has one of those Epcot 1960’s advertising voices—relays the information confidently and soothingly… ) “Her children never had to deal with a crabby, tactless, third-shift mom who snapped at them ‘please for the love of all that is holy, stop asking me why I kept [this thing] and just move it over there!’ There was never any bickering and all bladders and stomachs were magically synchronized….”

But no… That is not the story.

The REAL story is that my four children, two of whom I gave birth to, two of whom are mine in spirit, worked like sled-dogs for fourteen hours at a time. For a woman who sees love as Service, I could not have felt more loved as they bent their backs again and again to haul the endless loads. They never complained; they never quit. Together, since the movers never showed, we learned how to pack a truck and we did a darn good job. The piano arrived not only intact but mostly in tune. Only my desk has to be glued back together.

Feeding everyone during a move is very challenging. A dear friend was waiting at the house with a wonderful spread for us as soon as we got there. She had beautiful bread and a generous variety of vegan fixings for sandwiches. One young woman, made a plate of just the fixin’s and explained that bread is just “not her food.” I was curious. “You mean like you are gluten intolerant?” I asked. “No,” she said, “It’s just not something I eat. Like dogs don’t eat cat food—that kind of thing. Of course dogs most certainly enjoy eating cat food, but it’s not as healthy for them as dog food.” I nodded. “And sheep will happily gorge themselves on chicken feed but it will kill them if they bloat.”

As happens when I hear a new idea, I expanded it as far as it would go. I looked at the boxes stacked around the rooms and thought of Marie Kondo and the spark of joy my possessions were supposed to give me. I must admit, the spark was damp. I looked at a couch and thought “You… are not my food. You do not feed my spirit. You will have to go…”

As I go through the boxes, one by one, and dust off memories—I ask “are you my food? Are you giving me heartburn?” It’s very useful.

The notion of what “feeds” us even carries over into the shop when I go to work on Monday. A woman brings in some summer dresses to be altered. “I just love this one,” she says wistfully. I’ve worn it until it’s tired. It’s so old but it’s so comfortable. Then I bought this new one and it’s just not right.” She gazes unhappily at herself in the mirror.

“Madam,” I say, “This dress is not your food!” She looks startled. “I mean, it’s not nourishing your spirit and making you glow with health and strength.” Understanding dawns and she agrees. She tries to say this is her fault, that she has changed shape due to the stress of the pandemic. I wave that aside.

“Let’s hear none of that!” I say crisply. “Clothing needs to feed us, not swallow us whole and make us disappear. You are you and this dress needs to fit you not the other way around.”

“How would it be if I brought in a dress I love that fits just right and had you copy it? Could you do that?”

“Yes. Yes, I can,” I told her. It makes me think back to a time in the other shop when we had to make six denim dirndls for a woman who lived on a Christmas tree farm. Denim dirndls were clearly her food.

“I don’t know where I bought this dress and I they don’t seem to make them now but I would rather choose my own fabrics and pay someone local anyway.” Something in her brow softens. She pauses and considers me very kindly. “I’m so tired of picking through what’s out there and feeling like those are my only choices.”

I nod. We are going through so many shifts right now, it’s hard to consider yet one more, but I do believe (and dearly hope!) that we are going to come to our senses and stop destroying our planet with disposable “fast” fashion (like “fast food”) that is not even nourishing to our creative spirits. We want, and deserve, better quality that is more sustainable—even if we have to pay more for it. The right dress will make us feel like we just ate something healthy—not like we need to dive headfirst into the nearest box of Swiss Cake Rolls to numb the pain. I feel stronger, braver, and more satisfied when I wear things that are “my food.” The right shirt can be a long-time cherished companion if made well, of durable material. We want things that can sustain us for the long haul.

On my way home, I stop at a friend’s house for a socially distant visit in her lovely garden. Excitedly, I inform her that I am going through a phase of seeing the whole world as “food” that nourishes our spirits (or doesn’t.) She understands immediately. We talk about ourselves as if we too are “food.” We start talking about relationships and heartbreaks we have endured in the course of our lives. We talk of our children and our hopes for them. We talk about ourselves and about how, as matriarchs-in-training, we often feel obliged to “feed” everyone else first. We forget to feed ourselves. We feel hurt when what we have to offer others is “not enough” or “too much.”

I wish someone had told me when I was younger, that I am a perfectly delightful batch of brussel sprouts but that not everyone likes brussel sprouts and that’s OK. It would have eased the sting of rejection in ways I could understand. I wouldn’t have spent so much wasted time and energy trying to turn myself into a cheeseburger. There is absolutely nothing “wrong” with brussel sprouts. Some people (like myself) Adore them (“especially roasted with olive oil, salt, and garlic!” says my inner chef, beginning to drool into the keyboard), others call them “fart bombs” and would rather move pianos on a daily basis than eat one. The beautiful thing about Life is that it is a smorgasboard of opportunities and choices. My favorite movie character, “Auntie Mame” says “Live, Live, Live! Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!”

Sadly, once in a while, we meet someone dazzling, someone fantastic, who offers us the most delicious crumbs we have ever tasted. We hunger for more crumbs. It takes a while, given the nature of intermittent reinforcement and the addiction it creates, to realize we are never going to get more than crumbs from this individual. A big piece of the pie is never going to be ours. That’s when we need to walk away and say “Sorry, but crumbs are not my food.”

We are not here to weaken and starve. Life is our Feast! We each get to make the choices that are right for us. Just think, if all our possessions, our clothing, our relationships and our own prayers and practices are nourishing us and making us stronger than we have ever been before—what shall we do with all that Strength? What then? Who would we love better? What would we change? Just think of all we could Mend! As a society of caring, daring, loving souls, we could create the kind of Buffet where everyone gets fed.

Let the mending continue! I love you so much.

Yours aye,

Nancy