Bread is my “hello and welcome” food. This afternoon D and I took some bread over to a neighbor’s house. We have talked to them in passing before, but we wanted to connect.
Before I learned to bake bread, it was pie. When I was in college, my dear friend Wendy and I had what we called “the pie ministry.” We would drive pies to people who visited our church. I look forward to Tuesday nights so much. I was new in town and didn’t know many people. Money was very tight, but I managed to bake each week. Wendy would buy a pie. We would pick two or three houses to visit. This was before GPS. We would bring our maps and plan our trips. We always budget a whole extra hour for getting lost, because we always did. We became really close friends driving pies around. People would come to the door, with a smile. We didn’t come in. It was really just a hello and a note with our information. Sometimes people were not home, and a few times they didn’t come to the door. Wendy died several years later from very aggressive cancer and those days became foundational in my life.
I have also been on the receiving end of this kind of hospitality. When I lived with my parents and later when I got married. Our first big move, we pulled the U-Haul in front of our two-family home in Bayonne, New Jersey. Sharon, who lived next door, shouted from her front door: “Come in for a cuppa of coffee.” Another time, our landlady would bring pizza and homemade wine to us.
When we moved to Troy NY, again unloading our U-Haul (yes we have moved a lot!) Dawn, who lived next door to us, dropped off a basket with muffins. That was the beginning of years of porch exchanges.
I also deeply appreciate long distance neighbors who reach out via the post office. Food care packages are such an intimate way to be with someone. Giving food to strangers, though, can feel vulnerable, especially in a world where people may feel they need our offerings.
When I was a kid, my parents would go to the countryside to see friends and often we were invited to eat in the most modest of circumstances. My parents always said yes. It was the right thing to do in our culture, to receive the way someone was able to welcome you. I remember one time there was just rice and a little bit of beans, and we had to take turns eating because there weren’t enough plates or forks. We became friends. I remember my dad had a little glass cutting contraption to cut soda bottles into cups for us and we brought them some.
I understand that giving food to strangers can be complicated. But I think that receiving food is answering back “nice to meet you.”