The Spirit of Reciprocity

Feed it, and it will feed you

I find a sense of solace in the kitchen. Digging through the pantry, and the freezer, looking at what I have to work with. Spices, seasonings, and ripe onions are in their basket. Bags of rice tucked behind a bin full of pasta boxes.

The smell of crushed garlic sticking to my fingers, the knife rocking back and forth as I mince. I’m not that good at it, I have the scars to prove that, but I can get the job done with minimal fuss. Most of the time.

What will it be? A stew? Rice? Will there be a salad? So many options. But today it will be simple. Sliced onions in a baking dish, tomato, and a sprinkle of fennel. Salt and pepper. Bay leaf. Olive oil is always extra virgin. Good olive oil is like wine, so fragrant.

It’s a simple sauce, I used to make it all the time. Cheap and frugal, which appeals to someone who grew up with ketchup sandwiches and hand-me-downs that didn’t fit. But it doesn’t need to be expensive to be filling, nor full of flavor.

Into the oven, the dish will go, low and slow to let the fruit break down, split open, and release their juices to mingle with the other herbs and alliums. Gives me time to enjoy the appreciative sounds of my housemates walking in from outside, smelling the air, and nudging each other. There’s enough for everyone.

I take pride in this. Feeding people. I don’t do it too often these days, we’ve taken to cooking together as a group. But I should get back into the habit.

I know where the pride comes from. My grandparents had it, too. My grandmother treated the kitchen like my playground, and kept a dozen boxes of cake mix on the shelf for any occasion, special or otherwise. It would get eaten, one way or another.

Across town, my father’s father kept his house alone. The man who wouldn’t sit idle if hungry people were about, who would make meals for anyone in need, especially children. Growing up hungry changes you, and makes you love nothing so much as watching people eat. The freezer full of nothing but ice cream sandwiches was his pride and joy.

He’d solemnly nod, and promise my father on his way out the door, don’t worry, no treats until after supper. The door would close, he’d grin, and the cookie jar would come around from where he hid it behind his back. He never waited for dinner, why should his grandchildren? Better ask forgiveness than permission where sugar was concerned.

I remember my mother driving my friends home from school, where they lived above their family restaurant. Takeout boxes of rice and spring rolls, grateful smiles exchanged. No money, but full bellies for everyone. That was more valuable by far.

When you grow up without wealth, you learn to redefine it. Without money, you make your own currency. Such is the way of small towns, where everyone is struggling. You help each other, prop each other up.

Reciprocity. It’s how you stay alive, it’s how you show love to others. In the food we share, in the things we do. Pay it forward.

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