Chew your food
Early this week I was in Naturally on High in Thornbury buying several tubs of Yasser’s freshly made hummus (it’s so worth travelling for).
While I waited to be served I looked around the shelves packed with nuts, seeds, dried fruits, grains, pulses, ten different types of coffees, various oils, tins of this and that, jars of preserves, crackers, chocolates, bread, eggs, milk, honey and on and on.
This vast array of food reminded me that in our 12,000 years of famine-prone agricultural history humans have never had access to such an incredible diversity of food.
And yet at the same time we’ve never been more distracted and less appreciative of the grocery heaven-on-earth we find ourselves in.
Normally I eat my way through the day like an absentminded Hungry Caterpillar, I catch up on newsfeeds over my breakfast, at lunch I chat away hardly noticing my super tasty toasted sandwhich, even my afternoon corn chip and Yasser’s hummus treat is all but forgotten while I’m off thinking about what I need to do tomorrow.
Meanwhile, dinner time at our place with our two teenage boys resembles a scene from Fantastic Mr Fox – food disappears off our plates in some sort of fast-motion frenzied trance – we awake out of it to our empty plates wondering where it went?
I know eating slowly and purposefully is better for my digestion, better for controlling my weight, better for my fracturing attention span, but I also know that eating with presence pays respect to the land, the farmers, the makers, drivers, packers and grocers who give and give and give of themselves each day to bring us this food.
This week I’ve been trying to be present while I eat – starting each meal with the best intention, so far it’s been an overwhelming failure.
But at breakfast this morning I sit down at the table determined to be here for the beautiful pancake my son and his girlfriend have made for me.
My phone is on charge in another room and I’m remembering the first rule of “being-present-eating” by putting my knife and fork down between each delicious bite.
My go-to method however is acknowledging the collective agricultural, logistical and culinary miracles that have gone into making my meal.
The flour is ground from wheat grown over a winter in the Mallee, harvested by farmers driving headers deep into the night to get their crop to the mill before Spring rains.
My creamy yoghurt is made from a 4am milking and an on-farm fermenting at Simon Schulz’s dairy in Timboon.
My banana takes Peter Walton in Tully 12 months to grow and then a week in a commercial ripening room before it’s delivered to my Melbourne front door.
The splash of maple syrup has been tapped and drawn through long vacuum tubes from maple trees in Quebec that only start producing at 30 years old but could be as ancient as the famous 500 year old Comfort Maple.
Finally, there’s appreciation for that tangy pinch of fig salt, a homemade gift from a friend, that’s been delicately sprinkled on top.
With a supreme effort I’m still in the moment with my pancake as I savour the last mouthful. It’s a major breakthrough.
Later in the evening as I’m writing this, wondering why it’s all so hard, I find myself munching absent-mindedly on some roasted macadamias I don’t even remember picking up…
There’s always breakfast tomorrow.
Have a great week
Chris
