Saying Grace by Jean-Baptiste Simeon Chardin (oil on canvas, 1740)
Reclaiming Hospitality in the Hearth
The holidays are quickly approaching. Norman Rockwell images quickly come to mind of the grandmother proudly placing the plump Thanksgiving turkey on the table while multiple generations of onlookers eagerly anticipate the savory family feast. For some, these images render feelings of hope and anticipation, for others nostalgia and longing, for still others sadness and sorrow, and finally delusion and disgust. As these types of festive meals are gradually replaced by pre-ordered grocery meal packages, local restaurant take out, or Uber eats, one is left wondering whether something significant is happening with holiday celebrations. The delightful scent of baked pies and roasted turkey no longer waft from many kitchens. The playful shooing of potential taste-testers out of the kitchen is slowly becoming a lost game. The kitchen has been the sacred space where magical, festive meals are created and been upheld as the heartbeat of hospitality. When the kitchens are silent and scentless, is something lost?
I first realized the sacred magic of the kitchen as I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. Mrs. Beaver quickly became my hero. Her land was heavily patrolled by the White Witch’s police. Her husband had braved the forests looking for the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, spies as the Witch called them. Despite the danger, Mrs. Beaver demonstrated genuine hospitality, “At last! To think that ever I should live to see this day! The potatoes are boiling and the kettle’s singing and I daresay, Mr. Beaver, you’ll get us some fish.” Mrs. Beaver lays out a table spread that includes bread, butter, creamy milk, sticky rolls, beer, tea, and warmed plates. The sound of oil sizzling in the frying pan and the crackling of fireplace logs fill the air while the guests' vision is sharpened with sights of ham and onions decorating the homey rafters.
The scene is magically serene when contrasted with the harsh reality of the outside world. Meditating on this mystic scene, I first notice the sacred, magical calling of the hearth.
The kitchen is a sacred space. While I do not mean to trivialize the holiness of sacred spaces nor of priestly robes and roles, I hold that the cook is the priestess of the kitchen. Consider for a moment the Levitical role of the Old Testament priests, which is to serve as a mediator between YHWH and Israel. The priests were to interpret the law and statutes to guide Israel in the ways of YHWH.
Conversely, Israel brought the sacrificial animals to the priest at the entrance of the tent of meeting. After the individual killed the animal, the priest brought the blood into the holy place as an atoning sacrifice. The priests prohibited the unclean people from dangerously entering into the holy space, and the priest petitioned YHWH on behalf of the people.
Similarly, the cook dons her priestly robe—the apron—and mediates between the family’s nutritional needs and the plethora of edible, but not necessarily healthy, items that tempt the family’s tastebuds. The cook becomes the door through which all food must pass to be worthy for her family’s appetite. When hungry teenagers ravage the kitchen after basketball or football practice, she stands [sometimes at her own peril] between the lustful passion of just anything to appease the appetite and substantial nourishment needed for maturing, athletic bodies. She guides the family towards healthier choices, of course with the occasional sugary sweet just to stay on everyone’s good side!
Not only do I consider the kitchen a sacred space, I cherish the kitchen as a magical place. My personal pantry is stocked weekly with canned tomatoes, potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, and garlic. My counter harvest basket holds my garden yields of peppers, pumpkins, tomatoes, basil, Thai basil, parsley, sage, and several other Mediterranean herbs. Canisters of farro, quinoa, lentils, beans, flours, and cornmeal stoically stand on the storage shelves. Jars of calendula, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, coriander, cumin, curry, ras el hanout, sumac, and turmeric boast a world of flavors. Paprikas from Hungary to Turkey of various heat levels are lined and ready for a pinch or a dash. The various salts, peppers, and rubs have a special corner of the cabinet. Despite the variety of food instruments, none of them is a soloist. However, when the ingredients are placed in pots, pans, stoneware, baking dishes, or tossed on the barbeque with a slice of this, a mince of that, a dash of this and a splash of that, the magic begins. Waving a wooden spoon through soups and stews releases a symphony of aromas signaling to the family that dinner is almost ready. The meal is never just herbs, just spices, just vegetables or just broth. It is a mystic combination that creates a meal inspiring wonder and lovingly lures the family to the dinner table. No one but the cook knows how the meal came about; it merely magically appears from the family’s perspective.
When the kitchen is upheld as the sacred space and the magic is permitted to flow from the kitchen, hospitality naturally happens. Like Mrs. Beaver, the table spread is laid out. In our house, this means cloth placemats and napkins along with serving dishes. Occasionally, flowers decorate the spread. Frequently, the meal is accompanied with wine. The smells, the flavors, and the atmosphere beckon people to loll at the table. Conversation flows. Laughter erupts. Memories are made. The meals are not necessarily fancy. Many nights it's soup or stew with bread, or some type of vegetable with pasta, or beans and a grain. Of course, leftovers are a regular possibility. The combination of the lingering flavorful smells of herbs and spices floating throughout the house whets the appetites for what is to come, or what has been enjoyed. Along with the anticipation of the beautifully dressed table, guests celebrate a cozy place that lets them delay a return to harsh realities. Families sitting together regularly at the table creates a masterful scene for any artist—a gift to the participants through heartfelt hospitality.
The holidays are a festive time for sharing and celebrating. However, they are also squeezed into busy calendars. In the hectic activity of the holidays, there is a temptation to shortcut the feasts. It’s understandable. It may be necessary. Celebratory meals can be time-consuming and there is a temptation to eliminate the meal altogether. Depending on family traditions, some short-cuts of premade rolls and pies may be an option. However, before completely silencing the sacred magic of the kitchen and the hearth of hospitality to give way to commercially produced products, I wonder if we should pause for a moment to consider the cost of what may be lost. ❧