Sanctify Me

Saturday afternoon, I went in search of anchovies. Because Friday night, I had decided that the one thing I truly, positively wanted to eat over the weekend was a fresh Caesar salad, made from scratch, by me. Saturday morning, after an hour-long massage during which I may have actually seen God (or at least called out Their name a few times), I wandered happily through Whole Foods, sniffing, tasting, touching everything in my path. I uncapped and smelled essential oils, I ran my hands over mangoes, I inspected berries, I inhaled cheeses. I said yes to every hummus and organic cracker sample on offer. I don't trust people who say no to pleasure when it is freely given, it smacks of a stingy soul. I come out of any market not just smelling like a rose, but smelling like rosemary and mint, Tunisian olives, sandalwood candles, Bob Marley One Love incense and a little cinnamon-clove oil behind each ear.

Saturday evening, home from a long,hard day of mind-blowing sensory indulgence, I drew the drapes, lit the vanilla candles, poured myself a glass of Cabernet and commenced to cook. As I gathered my ingredients and turned on Cat Stevens Footsteps in the Dark and listened to old favorites "Katmandu" and "The Wind", the words of the Catholic communion rose on my breath. Take this bread, and eat it, I thought, as I prepared the garlic and parmesan-dusted croutons. Take this wine, and drink, I thought, as I poured myself another glass of the Cabernet, finding a ridiculous amount of solitary enjoyment in making a Caesar salad. For this is my body, as I chopped up the lovely little salty anchovies, their bodies, which they had given up for me.

As will often spontaneously happen around dinner time when you are cooking, a friend rang. Was I interested in coming out for drinks and dinner? It was my complete pleasure to reply, no, not tonight, but why don't you come over and let me cook for you? Slow food, enjoyed in, what could be better? And so my enjoyment of my dinner was doubled, as I chopped the Romaine, rubbed the bowl with garlic, whisked the olive oil and anchovies, shredded the chicken, squeezed the lemon, grated the Parmesan, and my friend and I shared the stories of our week as we shared our wine. Never one to rush courses, I like a separate plate for each one, to fully appreciate each item. Sometimes I talked, sometimes my friend, sometimes there was silence as we savored and contemplated. Silence is key in a good conversation, it is the space between the notes that defines the music.

The strawberries, peaches and mangoes were perfectly ripe, fragrant from sitting in my warm car as I dawdled through errands that afternoon. I chopped slowly, carefully, deliberately, as the priest offers up the host in the Mass. As I dribbled the Chocolate Balsamic Vinegar over the sugared fruit, I once again heard the Mass in my inner ear. Do this, I thought, in memory of Me.

Holy communion in an ongoing act of sharing. Of sharing what we have, of sharing who we are. Cooking, if done correctly and well, is a sacred act. An act of communion with yourself, with your mind, your body, your sense of touch, smell, and taste. It is an act of communion with others, preparing something for them, watching them enjoy and experience something they have never experienced before. This is where I find God, in the body. In what the body needs, in the true humanity of the Divine in all its forms, and in the divinity of humanity. Take this bread, and eat it, for this is my body. Take this wine, and drink, for this is my blood, given up for you. Do this, in memory of me.

Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.