Back from retreat: new house, new kitchen. Usual suspects: quinoa, kale, lemon, garlic. Each small potato wrinkles perfectly and tastes like a dream. Rosemary fresh from the new backyard.
Leora, Noa, Cat, Nuria, many others with whom I’ve cooked: I love feeling you with me at the stove and cutting boards.
Aneeta, I thought of your eating meditation. “Thank you.” [next mouthful.] “Thank you.”
This earth, and all the people who work to farm and harvest it: you amaze me. Things are bad right now, I know. I love you and want us to be free. Let’s keep trying to make it happen.
* * *
cooking — simple cooking — is becoming something of a devotional practice for me. i’m realizing more and more that food is a miracle, even while the process of creating it for human consumption is full of exploitation and suffering.
by the time food reaches me, it is caked with the invisible pain of others, saturated with the grim labor of thousands. this accumulated degradation is harder to remove than the wax off an apple, or the gerrymandered genes from a cup of Monsanto rice.
but maybe, somewhere along the line, the food has also been blessed by the whispers and motions of resistance. maybe the diggers of these potatoes are meeting secretly, to organize. maybe the truckers and dock workers are forming alliances. maybe the grocers in the produce section are imagining a world where the beets belong to everyone.
so i want to treat the food with love, to honor not only the bad, but the good and neutral of its past. may it fuel me, and others, toward collective liberation.
Kloncke 
cooking — simple cooking — is becoming something of a devotional practice for me. i’m realizing more and more that food is a miracle, even while the process of creating it for human consumption is full of exploitation and suffering.
by the time food reaches me, it is caked with the invisible pain of others, saturated with the grim labor of thousands. this accumulated degradation is harder to remove than the wax off an apple, or the gerrymandered genes from a cup of Monsanto rice.
but maybe, somewhere along the line, the food has also been blessed by the whispers and motions of resistance. maybe the diggers of these potatoes are meeting secretly, to organize. maybe the truckers and dock workers are forming alliances. maybe the grocers in the produce section are imagining a world where the beets belong to everyone.
so i want to treat the food with love, to honor not only the bad, but the good and neutral of its past. may it fuel me, and others, toward collective liberation.