We are dining with friends in Santa Cruz California at a restaurant located on a popular thoroughfare. Walking to the restaurant, we are surrounded by skateboarders who've given up traditional responsibility to live the live of unencumbered skating.
When we finish our meal, we scoop the Chinese leftovers into little white boxes. The waiter hands me a bag.
"Expect to give those away," Leslie leans over to tell me.
"What?"
"A skater will ask you for your leftovers."
At this point in my life, I've never had that experience. I check with my fellow diners to see if they're ready to relinquish tomorrow's gourmet Chinese food. No one wants to turn down the hungry. However, Leslie does admit when she's especially in love with her leftovers, she'll hide the takeout bag in her purse or under her jacket.
Sure enough, within minutes of leaving the restaurant, I hand over tomorrow's Chinese food to a young man who asks politely without any hint of desperation.
~~
School can be another Santa Cruz, though it is rare for a student to outright ask. The student instead will wander in during lunch without a bag or a box; he will strike up a conversation, and somehow I will just know.
"Where's your lunch?"
"I forgot it today."
One year, I started packing more food for a student who never had his lunch. I started to wonder if his parents had fallen on hard times or if there were emotions and circumstances I couldn't understand. I looked forward to breaking my sandwich in half or giving him an orange. By the time he was a senior, he was my good friend, and he no longer needed lunch. He graduated last year, and I miss him.
My vision of food sharing changed dramatically after reading David Pelzer's book, A Child Called It. The book is about a child with a mentally ill mother who tortures her child with hunger. She treats David's siblings normally, but she turns on him.
David becomes the punished child at school for stealing food out of other children's lunches. No one ever seeks for the root of the problem, no one ever asks, why is this child stealing food? Is he hungry? But no one could have imagined such a cruel mother.
My home became a refuge for my children's friends. I became my childhood friend's Jewish grandma who always asked, "Are you hungry?"
~~
Tony and I finally make it to the new Korean barbecue restaurant that opened up last spring. It's owned by a former student's family, and she's encouraged me to come ever since its opening. We pick up our neighbor who is from Korea, and look forward to enjoying the experience with her. I text my former student to let her know we're coming; we're greeted by her father, her brother, and her. Our Korean guest was friends with my student's parents when they knew each other in Seoul. It's both a reunion and a meeting of new friends.
We're ushered to a private room. Our service is impeccable (my student is our waitress), and our elderly friend is given extra care and attention.
The food is incredible. Tony and Youn Soon share an array of meat which they barbecue on the grill set into our table. We have sushi rolls, tea, an aloe drink, kim-chee, and small plates of lettuce, spiced radishes, cucumbers, marinated potatoes, mung bean salad, and glass noodles. I order a bowl of vegetables that is so hot the rice crisps into delicious crunchiness and the raw egg poaches. So much delicious food that I can only eat half. I get excited thinking this will be my lunch for tomorrow.
The next morning I can either take the vegetable roll or the mix of vegetables and rice. I settle on my favorite, the vegetables and rice with the big chunks of mushrooms. As class ends, I think about my waiting Korean extravaganza. I take out the little white box that I'll carry to the teacher's lounge to warm up in the microwave.
Oh, but I have to stop in the Chemistry lab to thank a fellow teacher for helping me out the previous day.
"Is that food?" he asks.
I want to hide my little white box, the contents I've been looking forward to eating for lunch since the previous night.
"Do you not have lunch?"
He nods his head.
In that split second, I have to make a choice. The choice is not whether to share my food or not, but whether to share it with joy. I make the switch.
"I'll split it with you."
"I couldn't take your food," he says, but the look in his eyes, the tone in his voice, is contrary to his words.
I happily divide the food (but I do keep the big chunky mushroom for myself-he probably doesn't like mushrooms-I easily convince myself).
I deliver the warm food to his desk where he is surrounded by students. "Enjoy," I call out while making a quick exit, "it's Korean barbecue from Yummy's."
"I don't know what that is," but the students around him do, and inform him that he's in for a treat.
I return to my desk to enjoy what's left and am surprised that the half portion is more than enough to satisfy.
When we finish our meal, we scoop the Chinese leftovers into little white boxes. The waiter hands me a bag.
"Expect to give those away," Leslie leans over to tell me.
"What?"
"A skater will ask you for your leftovers."
At this point in my life, I've never had that experience. I check with my fellow diners to see if they're ready to relinquish tomorrow's gourmet Chinese food. No one wants to turn down the hungry. However, Leslie does admit when she's especially in love with her leftovers, she'll hide the takeout bag in her purse or under her jacket.
Sure enough, within minutes of leaving the restaurant, I hand over tomorrow's Chinese food to a young man who asks politely without any hint of desperation.
~~
School can be another Santa Cruz, though it is rare for a student to outright ask. The student instead will wander in during lunch without a bag or a box; he will strike up a conversation, and somehow I will just know.
"Where's your lunch?"
"I forgot it today."
One year, I started packing more food for a student who never had his lunch. I started to wonder if his parents had fallen on hard times or if there were emotions and circumstances I couldn't understand. I looked forward to breaking my sandwich in half or giving him an orange. By the time he was a senior, he was my good friend, and he no longer needed lunch. He graduated last year, and I miss him.
My vision of food sharing changed dramatically after reading David Pelzer's book, A Child Called It. The book is about a child with a mentally ill mother who tortures her child with hunger. She treats David's siblings normally, but she turns on him.
David becomes the punished child at school for stealing food out of other children's lunches. No one ever seeks for the root of the problem, no one ever asks, why is this child stealing food? Is he hungry? But no one could have imagined such a cruel mother.
My home became a refuge for my children's friends. I became my childhood friend's Jewish grandma who always asked, "Are you hungry?"
~~
Tony and I finally make it to the new Korean barbecue restaurant that opened up last spring. It's owned by a former student's family, and she's encouraged me to come ever since its opening. We pick up our neighbor who is from Korea, and look forward to enjoying the experience with her. I text my former student to let her know we're coming; we're greeted by her father, her brother, and her. Our Korean guest was friends with my student's parents when they knew each other in Seoul. It's both a reunion and a meeting of new friends.
We're ushered to a private room. Our service is impeccable (my student is our waitress), and our elderly friend is given extra care and attention.
The food is incredible. Tony and Youn Soon share an array of meat which they barbecue on the grill set into our table. We have sushi rolls, tea, an aloe drink, kim-chee, and small plates of lettuce, spiced radishes, cucumbers, marinated potatoes, mung bean salad, and glass noodles. I order a bowl of vegetables that is so hot the rice crisps into delicious crunchiness and the raw egg poaches. So much delicious food that I can only eat half. I get excited thinking this will be my lunch for tomorrow.
The next morning I can either take the vegetable roll or the mix of vegetables and rice. I settle on my favorite, the vegetables and rice with the big chunks of mushrooms. As class ends, I think about my waiting Korean extravaganza. I take out the little white box that I'll carry to the teacher's lounge to warm up in the microwave.
Oh, but I have to stop in the Chemistry lab to thank a fellow teacher for helping me out the previous day.
"Is that food?" he asks.
I want to hide my little white box, the contents I've been looking forward to eating for lunch since the previous night.
"Do you not have lunch?"
He nods his head.
In that split second, I have to make a choice. The choice is not whether to share my food or not, but whether to share it with joy. I make the switch.
"I'll split it with you."
"I couldn't take your food," he says, but the look in his eyes, the tone in his voice, is contrary to his words.
I happily divide the food (but I do keep the big chunky mushroom for myself-he probably doesn't like mushrooms-I easily convince myself).
I deliver the warm food to his desk where he is surrounded by students. "Enjoy," I call out while making a quick exit, "it's Korean barbecue from Yummy's."
"I don't know what that is," but the students around him do, and inform him that he's in for a treat.
I return to my desk to enjoy what's left and am surprised that the half portion is more than enough to satisfy.
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