Since the beginning of 2016, I’ve been working with my friend Ann, sending her a photo of food every week, so that she can write a poem about it that celebrates peace and send it off to her subscribers. I generally tell her what the photo is about and if, for some reason, it holds any sort of significance for me, but it’s still her poem and her thoughts that she expresses, rightly so. I’ve decided to write a companion piece to the photos I send, musing about the way that food plays into our lives.
Recently, I went to lunch with a friend. It was an impulse date; we’re both busy (she’s a mom and owns her own business, I’m juggling four different jobs and trying to write in the middle of it) but I happened to call and ask her if she was free on the weekend I wasn’t visiting family and it was the one weekend in the entire month she had some time. Score!
For the record, we normally have to plan these things weeks in advance.
Our lunch was a funny affair, two hours long and filled with laughter that ranged from saucy giggles to full-on belly laughs. We told stories. We shared concerns. We shared nachos. It was indulgent, both in our menu choices (yes, please, I want the fries, she got a Bloody Mary and HOLY POCKETS I think my beer goblet was crafted from the skull of my enemy) and in our focus. For two hours, we had the privilege of leaving behind our roles as mother and business owner and instructor and writer, and we got to be, simply, friends. Communing over food, telling ridiculous stories, being each other’s sounding board, honest advice-giver, and confidante. It is the best kind of friendship; in the time we spend together, we can drop our pretenses and just BE.
Thank you, friend, for being there that Sunday. And thank you, friends, for being there at all. I’m not sure what I did to deserve the friends I have in my life, but I’m so, so glad you’re in it. Here’s to our lunches, past and present and future!