On food delivery from friends: yes, here you go, I see you.
me two weeks after giving birth to O—
It’s a snowstorm-warning February morning and a brimming cloth bag is dropped off on our stoop.
“I see something sweet in there! I see something sweet in there!” S— runs back and forth down the hall, stomping loud enough that it shakes J and I like leaves before a storm. His sleeping two-week old sibling tucked under the covers in our bedroom doesn’t flinch.
Meaghan has dropped off a jar of sauerkraut, several portions of rice, meatballs, grilled zucchini, a herbal tea blend, chocolates, and a signed copy of Sara O’Leary’s This is Sadie for S—. Many of our friends acknowledged S— in their meal drop off with extra snacks, treats or books; an attendant something for kids I didn’t consider when participating in meal trains before. I love to bake for others (especially their children!) and showcase that intolerances can serve as creative constraints not restrictions, but when making do for meal trains, I never thought of it beyond a necessity for people in a time of hardship.
As a kid, that’s what food was for in our house—wonted sustenance. Hardly ever an invitation or possibility of love. The children were always reminded to be grateful that we even had food to eat. The reminders were veiled reprimands because we had plenty of money back then and access to food beyond ration cards. I couldn’t figure out how to oblige this indebtedness so my memories are less about the food and more about my punishment for it: sitting on the toilet with a plate balanced on my knees until I was done. I would flush the toilet every so often to turn it into a makeshift noise machine to drown out the grown up’s conversations. The plumbing was old and the water pressure would gurgle and clank all the way up the long pipe along the wall like a wet fart. It would take long enough for me to have a few bites in between.
I wonder what gave my family the idea to take “Don’t shit where you eat” literally. Or is it the other way around?
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