Food Tastes Better When Shared.

Food is a binder.

Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate

If you didn’t sit around a table or on the floor sharing a bowl of food with your relations, can you claim that you have a large family?

I don’t really have a large family, but I still remember bits and pieces of us sitting in the living room, dimly lit by a lantern, with a bowl of cassava flakes in the middle of the table. Each person has a spoon, staring at no one but the rising garri. Once the signal is given to dig in, spoons fly into the bowl and connect quickly with the mouth of their user, last person washes the plate.

In those moments, there’s a feeling, a connection over sharing something so delicate, I can’t describe it with words. It’s like knowing that these people sitting around you will always have your back.

I know our friendship is cemented when we share a meal together. When I was in the university, I had a friend who could swear by the rule of never letting anyone eat out of a plate she was already eating in. Fast forward two years, we’re sitting on my bed in my little matchbox apartment, eating out of the one meal I had ordered.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with cooking a lot. I murdered the egusi soup I tried making, burnt my beans, and turned my banana bread into a rock. And even though some meals do come out decently, my joy has never been in eating them alone. My joy is in watching another person enjoy a meal that I prepared.

Yeah, I guess I’d be the weird aunt who sits close to her nieces and watches them eat a food I prepared while asking, “Is it nice?”

I’ve made up my mind to preserve the culture of inviting friends over for nothing but to eat and relax. I did it once, and the satisfaction of watching my friend leave my apartment fully fed and rested was enough to make that decision.

Now, I invite people over whenever I make something decent, just to share the moment of savoring it together with them.

The Korean culture of trying never to eat alone has always intrigued me and made me think of questions like, “Why wouldn’t you just want to eat in the peace and quiet of no one else but your thoughts?”.

I read in the Korean Times:

Traditionally, meals have been a communal experience, emphasizing family and friendship. However, as urban life becomes busier, the value placed on shared meals seems to be declining. This change reflects a society that is becoming more individualistic, which can lead to weaker social bonds.

This definitely puts the words into the feeling that I couldn’t quite describe. Food is a binder. Food is community. Food is where an angry man’s anger from the long day he had slowly diminishes into the solitude of deliciousness.

Food is where we laugh and laugh until the noodles we just swallowed come back out through our nose. Food is where we gossip over the neighbour who ran away with all her husband’s money. If you’re Nigerian, you know this kind of jist usually comes with the shelled groundnut that goes kpra kpra kpra, flavouring the gossip.

My mother used to tell me of a time when she was young. During Christmas, you could wander around, visiting people unexpectedly, and they will shower you with food and a pleasant welcome. It’s little wonder the sense of community during those times was stronger.

I hope we preserve the culture of community, and it starts with food.

Till next time,

Love and Light.

You can buy me a coffee