Stories & Food, My Fridge and Fuel

No, this is not a photo related to a Food Network competition in which I make a meal from vitamins, nut butter, cream, jam, more cream and vitamins. Nor is my fridge propless, prepped for this story.

This is my refrigerator when I'm compulsively caught up in a creation, writing a story or plunging into a venture which this time of year is usually connected to the outdoors. (Those of you who love me don't panic, judge or try to fix me just yet.)

Being someone accustomed to snacking throughout the day, this is really not good because my cupboards are likewise barren. Yet I often push on, driving myself not to the grocery, but to my computer embarrassingly unconscious as to the need for food as fuel. Instead I am fueled by scarcity, thinking, 'What if this is my last story?' I fear if I don't write that very minute the story will not come through or will be left unfinished.

The day, now two weeks ago, that I took this photo, I had opened the refrigerator one morning and excitedly thought, 'There's a story.' Fragments of metaphors and messages regarding fuel and food, the inside and outside, our cultural and personal stories crowded my nearing menopause mind, a mind that some days feels brainless. I panicked trying to make all the connections and ended up at the computer frustrated and thoroughly confused.

For once I opted for a New Story. Rather than try to wrestle and control my ideas into submission, I consciously decided to trust the better story would be written without compulsion so I made my way to the Farmer's Market near downtown Nashville.

Enroute I stopped at a grocery, one I seldom frequent. Come to think of it, the last time I was at this store was around this time last year. Then I was seeking canning jars. This particular day I needed jar lids.

In the entry way, I sensed a palpable friendliness and ease. Two African American men sitting side by side just inside the door shared stories while one said to the other, "You want a bite of my cake?" I might as well have been sitting on the porch, my dad offering me a taste of my mother's blueberry swirl or lemon layer tart. Another fellow walked up, engaged with the cake eaters as I smiled and went inside.

I wandered a bit before finding the canning products. While perusing the shelves, a young man asked how I was and I in turn inquired about his day. He stocked shelves as I scanned.

At some point he said, "I'm sorry. I should have asked if I could help you find something." I told him I was considering canning again this summer and didn't realize jar lids now come in three sizes. Why was this surprising? Everything else these days comes in big, bigger and biggest why not jar lids?

As we found the right ones, this young man Bob wove a story starting with cooking squash for his wife and kids the night prior. They had never eaten squash. He described the dipping and mixing ritual involving egg, cornmeal and flour and shared his delight and their surprise when they learned they were eating squash and liked it. This story was followed by one regarding canning squash and his plans to grill corn on the cob brushed with olive oil that night for dinner.

I stood in this unfamiliar store surrounded by strangers feeling nourished and at home. Bob captured not only me but others who gathered around drawn in by our exchange. One of them chimed in with a comment as to learning and life then Bob and I said our good-byes and thank you's.

As I turned to walk away I paused and asked: Who taught you to cook? Was it your mother or your grandmother?

He replied, "My father was a chef in the military for over twenty years."

I smiled. My story arrived without struggle through Bob, an angel in disguise.

I drove home that day nourished by the cycle of this young man literally fed by his father (who fed the masses) now feeding his family and in turn feeding me soul food that I offer you.

I drove home that day struck by a stereotype I carry about women being the feeders and nurturers reminded that men nurture and feed metaphorically and literally.

I drove home that day aware my empty fridge parallels my insides when I ignore them and get out of balance, when I forget I need the cycle of receiving, not only literal food, my body's fuel, but the food of story providing the fuel of love and connectedness, of shared cake and canning to fill me so I can feel me, who I am inside and in turn inspire others.

Is it possible we've an energy crisis in our world because we not realized the value of the shared energy of our hearts, stories and minds?

Story is fuel for the soul the way food is fuel for the body. The centuries old and told story of the external, a story of conquest, competition and discovery, has gotten us to this point which is not all bad. But it leaves us like my fridge empty internally. Wait, I just realized that my refrigerator is a CONQUEST! Yes, that's it name.

I envision a world in which we value the inner as much as the outer, cooperation more than corporations and nourish our souls as well as our bodies. Life, other countries and cultures, our bodies and insides should not be the targets of conquest but part of a greater quest, an adventurous, cooperative quest to learn, connect and nourish one another as Bob did me and those around him that day in the grocery. Imagine that!

-Dawn, the Questing Good News Muse, 23 July 2010

* and, yes, I've food in my fridge.