Respect your food.

Anyone who tells you hunger is a physical need and not an emotion has never been hungry. It eats into a poor society, and overrules all other needs, ideals and motivations.
And yet, in our American land of plenty, we do not teach our children to respect food.
We neither teach, nor learn, the true value of food. Most of us want too much, eat too much - the more convenient, processed and fatty the better - and then throw the rest away. No wonder we are fat, unhappy and unhealthy.

We are missing the fundamental principles usually taught in third world, poorer countries. In these societies, sharing is not primarily a magnanimous self sacrificing gesture. It is more about the other -- the sharing of resources, and food in particular, is the giving of the essential to another.

Much emphasis is placed on respecting one's body in this culture. The value of the body God gave you is touted in every women's magazine, and is the sage-like affirmation behind many an Oprah show. Yet I would guess that in many instances it is not that we are disrespecting our bodies, but rather our food. After all, how many extremely overweight women are beautifully manicured, coiffed and carefully made up?
What if these women percieved a medium sized plate of fresh vegetables, slice of roast beef and a scoop of rice as a treat of nutrition and plenty? What if a soda was regarded as a fizzy treat for extremely hot weather, tap water the norm for thirst? What if an orange and a thick slice of bread was universally considered a substantial and satisfying lunch? These are the truths of third world countries.

Our disrespect allows us to eat alone, quickly, encapsulated in the semi-privacy of our oversized cars. We eat in secret, surreptitiously. We should be eating with friends, family or colleagues, when relaxing, with pleasure and a hint of celebration. We should share our food, divide what we have to give enough to all, and in the process we will nourish our souls and bodies.
Twinkies swallowed on your way home from work in your car is disrespectful. This is not enjoying cake, but guiltily cramming a cellophane wrapped chemical concoction down your throat. Make a chocolate cake at home once a month, share it with a handful of good friends or family and talk, laugh, exclaim how good it is, taste the chocolate and love that went into it. There will be no guilt, there will be joy, there will be enough and not too much. There will not be unnecessary seconds.

Our first evening in the Bay Area, we shared a multitude of Chinese take-out boxes with a small group of friends. There was three times more food than we could have eaten, and afterwards, our hostess opened the trashcan and dumped half eaten containers of food into it. I was stunned at the waste.
The following day we picnicked in a park with a few delectable clamshelled and paper bagged treats from a nearby Whole Foods. After lunch, I wrapped up the untouched leftovers and automatically offered them to a group of homeless men lounging in the sun nearby. My friendly offering was greeted with contempt and chilly refusals. I was chagrined, embarrassed and confused. Was I supposed to throw it away? We took it home for later.

At Jenna's school there is a bin for recycling plastic bottles, which the elementary school kids dutifully use as trained, but they dump full trays of heavily subsidized cafeteria meals into enormous trashcans. There goes unopened milk, cellophane wrapped burritos and the obligatory healthy piece of fruit that everyone puts on their tray and no-one eats. The custodian appears when the bell rings, and lugs out the bags to the dumpster. I feel sad and ashamed. I remember my evening rituals in my home in Cape Town.

Every evening after dinner, I would scan the contents of my kitchen and sort food into plastic bags. Left over bread in one bag, left over dinner and scraps in another. I would double bag it, and leave it in the shade outside my front gate. The predawn scavengers, mostly women and children, would slip through the streets, rustling the bags and taking the best scraps. The rest would be left for the next wave of hungry.

It would serve us well to remember the value of good food. That does not mean finishing a huge plate of food in front of us that we do not really want, because the children in Africa are starving. It is to remember to share, take as much as we need and no more, because the children in Africa are starving.

Greetings from Gabs.

Yesterday a pile of postcards arrived in the mail, bearing pictures of baby elephants, giraffe, hippos and baboons. "Greetings from Gabs", my brother wrote in salutation, my evening frenzy-time at home with the little girls suddenly dissipating in the energy of humor, affection and sibling connection spilling off the colorful cards. My adored younger brother is in Gaberone, Botswana.

Botswana.
One of my most favorite places on earth. My dream life. Africa at her best, rawest, most ravishing, dramatic, unpredictable, harsh, and surprisingly forgiving.

My first night in Gaborone was many years ago. It was a dusty, bedraggled oasis in a vast African Savannah landscape. I flew in on a tiny commercial airplane on a business trip and ended up at the only large hotel in the city in those days, a Southern Sun tourist special. These hotels were Las Vegas Wannabees in the early nineties, with thick carpets, staff in Star Trek-like uniforms, and the round-the-clock ring, tring, tring of small scale casino games and gambling.

I arrived at sunset, and was quietly and efficiently escorted to my plush room.

I immediately dragged the heavy curtains open, resolving to order a drink to celebrate the sunset, and a burger to sidestep the jazzy restaurant downstairs.
My drink arrived quickly clinking in hotel-grade crystal, and I breathed in the utter peacefulness of complete harmony as an astonishing orchestra of life made ready for bed. The modern hotel soared above the low buildings of the ramshackle city.
It was built on the outskirts of Gaborone, wrapped in rolling banks of lush, irrigated lawns, bright green and garnished with colorful puffs of bright bougainvillea bushes. The cooling air was thick with the sound of fat insects burrowing in the lushness.
Beyond the ornate borders of the grounds, Africa reared her battered, noble head. Dusty scrubs of brush and the garbage scraps of poverty stretched out toward the quietly buzzing city. The acacia trees, twiggy thorn trees and hardy Kalahari Savannah rolling out over the horizon, awash in the forgiving orange light of fading sunset. The harsher sounds of wild animals, calling bush birds and the scrabblings of survival in a dry parched earth cascaded over the clearer, nearer preparations for night.

Dusk. Time for a bath and some unhurried planning for the following day. I waft indoors from the tiny balcony and come face to face with the biggest spider I have ever seen in my entire life. I tend to exaggerate when it comes to insects, but I swear this was a whopper. As shrieking will not help me, I angle to the bed and gingerly pick up the phone for help. The politely bored attendant promises to send someone up to remove it. I stare at it, my heart racing, and consider my limited options of escape. I do not know what I will do if it jumps up at me. Will it jump? Can it jump?

There is a discreet knock at the door. I hold my breath and creep over to the door, convinced the spider is going to leap onto my face like they do in those horrible movies we watched as thrill deprived teenage girls.
I carefully open the door and there is a rotund lady, probably from housekeeping, holding the smallest plastic dustpan and little brush. Honestly, the profound absurdity of this tool of capture made me giggle with anxiety. She brushed past my obviously useless expression and looked around for the offending creature. They saw each other, she charged out the room with an African squeal and curse, and in all the commotion the spider scooted out the door. As soon as I saw the hairy legs move onto the plush hall carpeting I slammed the door shut.

I wasn't brave enough to open the door or follow up with housekeeping to see what had happened to the spider. I just hoped that by the next morning the coast was clear, the muzak soothing me to the elevator as I swished off to greet the African dawn and her people.
And then the real adventure began.

The Farm That Winter.

I remember sliding around on the back seat of my grandfather's canary-yellow, diesel Mercedes Benz.
Boredom, thick sadness, and anxiety forcing me to methodically count the passing telephone poles as we drove along the rural highway to my maternal grandparents' farm in the Drakensberg Mountains. It was winter and the mid-year school holidays. In hushed tones and few words, my mother had arranged for us to spend three weeks on the farm in the bitter, crisp cold.
My throat was tight with suspicion, as it had been a few months since my father's death and a short, rumbunctious character with an odd pudding-bowl haircut seemed to arrive unannounced at our house at unusual times of day. My mother's new friend was forceful, loud and most unwelcome.

My grandfather was silent as he nosed the huge car up the mountain passes, and after a few hours, he pulled over at a concrete picnic table under a typical African thorn tree and quietly handed out hard boiled eggs and sandwiches. The wind was biting cold and he handed me a steaming thermos cup of black coffee, whisky fumes burning my nose. I hesitated, and he insisted with a kind, yet impatient gesture. My first swallow of strong coffee and whisky cleared my sinuses and made my eyes sting, but I felt cheered, grown-up and much, much better.
I was eleven.

My pillowy grandmother greeted us with hugs and cinnamon biscuits. Soetkoekies, the crispy molasses and cinnamon flavor of childhood dipped in mugs of hot, milky tea. She spoke of my tall, quiet, reserved father too often, and avoided all talk of my mother and home.
We fled into the mountains and hills. As dawn awoke the doves in the enormous conifer trees that dwarfed the farmhouse, our bare feet hit the frosty, hard earth and we roamed the farm from the frozen streams, woody, bare orchards to the pastures, paddocks, paths, huts, coops, barns and vleis. We ran from dogs unused to white people, shrieking toddlers fascinated by our blond curls, and surly bulls and mules.
We ran in packs with kids from the labourers' smoky compounds, and poked at snakes, giant ants and transparent scorpions. We rubbed huge earthy cow noses, chased sheep for fun and antagonised the fierce domestic goats that chased us vigorously, bleating in indignation.
My grandmother never attempted to keep track of our whereabouts, but scolded the bony, dusty compound children in Zulu, and warned them to keep us safe.

We returned to the concrete veranda for food and tea, my grandfather smoking his pipe in silence as we ate in the weak winter sunlight. He would tap out his pipe, whistle for his dogs and stride out through the winter-desolate rose garden in front of the stoep.

Then we were off again. We would frequently hike to the springs beyond the shallow, reedy vlei where all the ducks and wild birds flocked like clockwork. Water that tasted of brisk, fresh air bubbled through the golden yellow, velvety clay.
My sinewy grandfather would come buzzing along in the early evening on his off-road motorcycle and brusquely load us on the back, hanging like monkeys on a moving branch. We were cold, dirty, clear headed, and felt the fatigue that only comes from a day well lived.

And then we were returned home to a wedding announcement, chatter, drama, tears, and strangers.

I distinctly remember that I never had a conversation with my grandfather in those three weeks. His quiet, reserved manner had been enough and the pure freedom, quiet rhythms of nature, and calm of the farm had comforted my soul a little.