FOOD
Sex Without Partners & Soup
It’s Not What’s on the Table But Who Surrounds It
My grandmother was an amazing fashionista, but a terrible cook. She wore leopard print almost exclusively, and red fingernail polish. She was known for her cocktail parties. I think people tended to treat her parties more like a potluck. Yes. She was that bad. She was however a fantastic hostess. On the rare occasion, I was allowed to attend one of these parties I remember little about the food. People laughed, and carried on, and drank. It was never about the food, rather it was about the company.
Grandma Fred, short for Wynnifred, Wynnie to most people, was almost everything I aspired to be. Funny. Strong. Liked by others. Her lack of skill in the kitchen clearly didn’t matter, she was married to my grandfather from the time he came home from the war until his passing in the early 1970s. He was the love of her life, and I’m sure she, his. Together they frequented a little family-owned restaurant in their neighborhood. That same family-owned restaurant was where grandma and her friends, and eventually my parents and I, and now my own kids, (now that I’ve moved back,) celebrate bigger events in life. In fact, I had my send-off before I left to student teach overseas, and I was married, then I toasted my divorce, celebrated the birth of both of my children, and via takeout, my return to town in the middle of the pandemic, all over prime rib from that restaurant.
The restaurant has seen a lot of changes over the years. They have added to it and remodeled it several times over. The loudspeaker that once announced when a party's table was available, is no more. As a child I remember going to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary, and waiting anxiously while drinking a Shirly Temple to hear “Wynnie party of four your table is now available” the best nights were when I was invited to Wednesday night dinner with grandma and her friends. They were all neighborhood women, all (most?) Of whom were widowed, and they called themselves Sex Without Partners. I was too young to pay attention, but can you imagine being in a restaurant, and hearing “Sex Without Partners your table is now available” and seeing seven old ladies prance through?
Grandma taught me that sharing food is seldom about the food itself. It’s about the people gathered around the table. I didn’t want to share this particular story. It felt too precious, too sacred, but as I write this, I am seeing a parallel between grandma and her friends and my recent birthday celebration. Seven of us gathered around a table at a friend’s house. He graciously offered to host, his girlfriend did most of the cooking. When he asked me what I wanted for dinner, I offered up the first two things that came to mind, soup and a big salad. Comfort food. I realize now that my birthday dinner was never about the food. If it had been, I would have taken the reigns, invited everyone to my place, and gone to town in the kitchen. It was always about coming together around a table and enjoying each other’s company.
That was what grandma and her friends did, every Wednesday night, for a really long time. Grandma passed away in 2000, by then the group had ceased meeting, most of its members have passed away or moved into assisted living facilities. The Wednesday night group wasn’t her only regular or semi-regular get-together with friends. At her funeral, the women she played golf with showed up wearing leopard print ribbons (this was the height of the AIDS ribbon thing), and she had friends she played bridge with, neighborhood friends, the family of the restaurant she frequented, all of whom showed up to pay their respects.
I write a lot about food. It’s rare that I hit publish on a piece where food hasn’t been mentioned. It is both central in how I relate to others and very much secondary. The first piece I ever hit publish on mentioned my need to share bread with coworkers at the scene of a fender bender on my way to work.
I’ve come to realize that food is how I show love. It’s also how I receive it. I almost declined the offer of a birthday dinner, then I sat with it, and realized that I wanted to feel celebrated. I turned 45. Not a milestone birthday, also not one to ignore. I wanted to look around a table, eat simple, good, food, laugh, and maybe drink a glass or two of wine, in a room full of love for each other, for me. The food that night was perfect, soup, salad, bread, cake, wine. My friends happen to be the kind of people who can prepare a salad in such a way that you don’t notice that it doesn’t have a dressing on it. Yes. They are that good.
I mentioned at the beginning grandma was a terrible cook. She made breakfast, and I believe that was the only thing she knew how to prepare other than oyster dressing. Eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and juice, for all other meals Swanson, or takeout would suffice. And? That’s okay because it really is more about the faces around the table than what is on it.
© Sarah Backstrom 2022
