Food is our language
A collection of short stories about food being communication
Genre: Creative Non-fiction
Word count: 357
It was late spring in New Jersey. 2012. I had just crashed on the couch after a long day of sixth grade, learning about how sugar reacts to heat and reading books about childhood independence.
My father was in the kitchen cooking dinner four hours prior to when we actually needed it. I wandered in to grab a snack to spoil my appetite for grilled chicken for the third night in a row.
“Ems you don’t need a snack right now, I’m cooking dinner.” He didn’t even turn around to look at me as he boiled quinoa while explaining the health benefits of all the foods he decided to make. To me, it just meant another flavorless meal. Ever since he was laid off, these speeches and constant “concern” were at least once daily, making it harder than ever to want to be around him, let alone have a conversation with him about anything. Somehow, he always ended up on a soapbox trying to make up for the lack of parenting that took place throughout our formative years. It was moments like these that I wish I played a sport like my brother; at least he didn’t have to deal with this as soon as he walked through the door. And it is abundantly clear that all of this came about because he was bored at home.
I grabbed the Skinny Pop from the cabinet, and an Ice drink from the fridge and trudged up the steps to finish my work for the next day. He calls after me, telling me to come back to the kitchen for another one of his infamous lectures on how eating too close to dinner makes you not hungry and that it is disrespectful for me to have him slave away in the kitchen to have no one appreciate his efforts of making dinner for us. The irony of the gender roles was not lost on me, even at twelve. I turned around to tell him that I was only going to have a little since it was four o’clock and dinner usually isn’t until seven, but he was gone again.
Word count: 307
It was mid-fall in New Jersey. 2016. The leaves were a bright orange that can only be seen at this time of year. I was in the front seat of my dad’s new Mercedes, playing country music while on a drive to the beach to close down the house. It was quiet for a while; both of us taking in the beauty of autumn rolling through the area and turning the world to color. My sophomore year of high school was living up to its infamy of being rough in every aspect so my father decided to drag me on a weekend away for perspective and space.
“So talk to me, what is happening with your friends, school, life?” He looked over expectantly, waiting for an answer about how the world of a sixteen-year-old girl is going. It wasn’t the first time he asked. He did know about friend drama and how school was stressing me out but the extent to which I dealt with it was never revealed.
“I guess it's okay. Things are finally dying down with friends but I am stressing about college and my future.” He didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. All he did was clap a warm and soothing hand on my shoulder while glancing at me with a slight smile on his face.
“So dinner then, where are we going? We can do burgers or Mexican food or seafood. Maybe the ChEgg is open for wings and salads.” I guess that’s his default, food as a comfort and affection as a final result but I wasn’t about to argue. Not talking about it was what I needed.
“The ChEgg sounds good,” I replied. We sang Toby Keith and Tim McGraw until the sound of the shore washed through the car.
“Take a breath,” he said, “stress doesn’t exist here.
Word count: 289
It was late summer in New Jersey. 2018. The airport was scarce of people and I was struggling to carry my bags to my dad waiting under the monitors that show when the planes come in.
“Emmzaaaa!!! How was the flight?” He took a bag out of my hands and dropped it to the floor to engulf me in a hug.
“Short, but long. Seven-hour delays are the worst.” It was 5:00 AM and he had to drive all the way to Newark to pick me up. Sleep was still in his eyes but I could tell he was happy to have me home.
He dragged my suitcase up from the ground and pulled it to the car waiting in the parking lot. He had questions, lots of them, about if it was the right place for me, if I saw a future there, and all of the other concerned parent questions one is trained to ask when one’s child returns from a college summer program.
“Talk to me about this place because I am thoroughly confused. I know you said it will set you up for a job in what you want to do but are you sure that this type of school is for you? Did you find your people?” There was more than obligation in the intense stare he was giving me. It was curiosity, interest, and excitement.
“This feels right, Dad. I haven’t felt that before but I am meant to be there.”
“Well good.” After a brief, sweet pause, he said, “ Breakfast. I was thinking the Ritz Diner or Red Barn?” I grinned and he immediately knew my answer. We rounded the turnpike to our special spot for pancakes, eggs, and shitty coffee.
