Potlucks as a Political Act

 

                I am a messy cook. I know—this is no surprise to anyone who has worked in a kitchen with me and seen my apron at the end of a shift, but it has persisted well beyond my catering days.  

When I was six, my mother set me in front of a pile of potatoes that she wanted peeled for dinner. (Never mind asking why you need to peel potatoes that are about to be mashed….there it was.) She demonstrated with the peeler, dropping all of the scraps neatly onto the paper towel in front of her. “Get the eyes, too,” she instructed, digging out the sprouts. Then she turned her back, trusting me to get on with the job. I did. Potato peels went everywhere but on the paper towel. And I missed a bunch of eyes. She sighed. To her credit, she set me on potatoes—and many other kitchen tasks—for years, teaching me essential life skills, like cleaning up after yourself. But she never could figure out how I made such a mess with simple tasks.

                This afternoon, I have been making food for friends. We are hosting our monthly potluck this evening. It’s clear, warm and sunny, with a light breeze. I have trimmed back bushes, cleaned the house, and made a batch of tabouli with lemon juice and parsley, bulked out with tomatoes and cucumbers from the back yard.  And I have a container of blueberries that are crying out to be turned into a pie. It’s summer. The eating is easy. Bonnie Raitt is singing her way through her collection of hits, moving me back in time to other warm afternoons in kitchens. I love this time of year.

                I’ve been reading Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny lately; I prefer the graphic edition. He talks, very seriously, about how to spot encroaching authoritarianism and what people have done, in the past to resist, both in philosophical and practical terms. I try and apply it to my own life.  Do Not Obey in Advance. Be as Courageous as You can.  Beware of Paramilitaries. All pretty clear.  And then he says—Make Eye Contact and Small Talk, a skill I learned from my father, who knew everyone. A web of loose connections will catch you when you fall.

But I think he left out one—feed people. Eat together. Gather around tables and share a meal. When you want a meeting to go well, bring cookies. When people are stressed, feed them.  Breaking bread—literally, especially—brings people together into a community. And we need that community, now more than ever. So I am cheerfully making a mess—or two—this afternoon, which I will clean up before people gather around my table to eat, and talk, and be together, again and again and again.

Sleeping Outside

 

                On the third hot night of the year, Mark and I move outside. (It takes that long for him to give in; if it were up to me, I’d be out in mid-June…) We haul the bed from the back of the ark and settle it, on a tarp, near the greenhouse where a hefty block of wood creates a headboard.  I find three light blankets for layering purposes and then the Big Blanket—which a very stiff, very large, cheap comforter that Mark bought 30 years ago---covers it all. By morning, we will be under all of them. At the same time, I bring out a lamp for the table so that we can see to read while we wait for the sea breeze to cool off the night.

                Over the years we have been woken up by a couple of joyful, hairless dogs on a neighborhood romp, delighted to find people out to pat them at 4 AM; showers that came on quickly; a young possum wandering across our feet; and our cat, who was also delighted to have people outside in the night.  We’ve heard many rustles but have never been disturbed by rodents or raccoons. We’ve had owls in the big trees occasionally.  People walk by in the alley or on the street, but, because of the buildings, they can’t see us—I used to hang a sheet on the line to protect us from the back alley but everything is so thick back there now I don’t need to.

                It’s a beautiful way to spend the summer nights. We can watch the stars and satellites before we fall asleep. I wake up in the middle of the night to a garden bathed in brilliant moonlight. In the early morning, the sky is so blue and my house so yellow that I am stunned in wakefulness.  

                Every summer, I dream about creating some sort of lift for the bed so that we do not stress the grass underneath us when we stay out for long periods of time. A futon frame would be great—and I could find one easily. Maybe I could build little frame around it to hold curtains like a tent? That would be cool.  But then I think, where would I put it all winter? I’ve considered using plywood and old picnic benches (which we retired to basement shelves because they would not hold our company safely…) but they are not big enough, or sturdy enough. Cinder blocks? Maybe…if I found a couple of pieces of plywood being thrown out somewhere….I will keep my eye out.  Until then, what we have is lovely.