grain-free doughnuts

I love the community that gathers around food, whether it’s our family of three at the dinner table every evening, or a picnic with friends in a park crowded with sunshine and other people, or an elegant meal in a hushed restaurant. Mostly, though, I love the stories that come from food.

Last week, in Santa Fe, I heard about the crisp matzoh balls made by an African-American cook in segregated Baltimore in the 1950s. She knew how to cook but that kitchen seethed with bitterness. I heard about a conversion to Jesus over an expensive dinner and a great bottle of wine in Las Vegas. I listened to the survivor story of a young woman who lost everything she knew and learned her strength in the forest, foraging for mushrooms and cattail hearts. I learned about fried walleye in the Midwest. I laughed to hear about the first date of two friends, which included fat-free ice cream. (And she still fell in love with him.) I learned about the molasses pucker of shoofly pie in Mennonite culture.

Some incredible writers shared their stories generously, the stories that formed around meals and hunger, unexpected tastes and something as great as cherry pie. The Cook n Scribble writing retreat, organized by Molly O’Neill, returned something to me that had been missing for awhile. I found my wild mind of writing again. What had been careful and constantly intended for print came back to me with the unbounded energy of a small child jumping off the porch into green grass. I’m writing again. Not here — although that’s happening right now — but on my own, in 10-minute bursts, every morning. Letting go of the need to make the words perfect, I’m following the rhythm of it again and seeing what comes out.

What does this have to with the doughnuts up there? This is what came out when I looked at the photo.

But I think I know why. I’m inspired by the people who give of themselves, simply, when you meet them. It doesn’t have to be complicated. A cup of tea and connected conversation. A tour of a farm, the farmer speaking plainly about why she loves it there. Friends across the table at dinner, shouting slightly to be heard above the noise of the restaurant. Last-minute whispers in bed before the day disappears.

If you haven’t started reading the Roost blog, may I suggest you do? It’s singular, a strong quiet voice in a world of yelling. The photographs are gorgeous and evocative. It looks like no one else’s blog, a dish of lentil cakes with pesto, wilted greens, and lemon-thyme fries. Coco loves food. She also healed her husband by feeding him meals on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, which is more restrictive than  simply gluten-free. Clearly, they are both thriving.

It’s about thriving, about being alive, about listening to the mind that says: “go here. meet these people. there’s something for you.”

Also, there are doughnuts.