Food For Thought

"Food For Thought" is a community programme sponsored by local businesses and hosted by Lakeshore Arts. It began late last summer with a series of writers' workshops held in local libraries. I attended one of these workshops around the corner at The Mimico Public Library. It was facilitated by Joan Chandler, a published author. Joan was wonderful!

The initiative was aimed at getting the community involved in story telling. We were invited to write a short story recalled from personal memory. The story had to be true, or at least based in Truth, and it had to be personal, and it had to include food. Food For Thought. Get it? It was not necessary for food to be the focus of the story, however eating and/or preparing food was to be a part of it.

Why food, Ms J? I don't know, really. I guess food is something that unites us all. No matter what your cultural background is, we can all relate to food. Besides, it's art. Art doesn't have to make sense. It was great fun. The workshop series was run twice resulting in the submission of some sixty-odd stories. That was "Phase One."

The second phase was called "Setting The Table." After our stories were completed, they were submitted to theatre arts students at a local college (Humber, if you must know). The second-year students there accepted each story for consideration as a short, dramatic vignette. About a dozen or so were selected. Mine was among them. So yesterday afternoon, Girl Alex and I (you remember Girl Alex, my young actress friend) went to the college studio to watch the performance of these vignettes. We were both quite impressed.

G.A. was excited to see the performance space and after the show, some of the students offered us a tour of the facility. She'll complete high school in June and she plans to audition for the theatre arts programme at Humber next year. G.A. loves to be on stage. She shines there, Ms J.

The show was fabulous. As I said, we were impressed. These young actors were very dedicated and focused. The show moved seamlessly from one vignette to the next without missing a beat. The students sang and acted their hearts out to a very appreciative audience which numbered about a hundred. Yes, even the musical portions were well-done. The harmonies and choreography were enchanting. The kids' enthusiasm was contagious.

When my little story was told, I felt so proud. How exciting it was to see my memory brought to Life on stage! I wished so much that someone - anyone, from my family could have seen it. But alas, it was just Alex and I.

Here's the story. True story. As factual and as accurate as memory allows:


Food For Thought

By Dale Pringle

The year was 1972. I was fourteen and I stood, clutching a large book and trembling with emotion. My family was seated around Grandma’s dining room table in the small town of Whitby, Ontario. We were preparing to enjoy a sumptuous Christmas dinner. The long, antique table with Duncan Fyfe legs was loaded with food. Enough to feed an army, Dad said. A large white serving bowl held fluffy mashed potatoes. Smaller bowls of various shapes and sizes contained shiny green peas and candied carrots and sweet niblet corn, all picked fresh last summer from Grandma’s great backyard garden and kept frozen until just this morning.

The turkey, I’d heard, had “come out perfect” and lay rather ignominiously on its back waiting to be carved and devoured. The turkey had been the object of great concern and the subject of much conversation almost from the moment we’d arrived. Apparently, the bird was a male, for Mum and Grandma referred to it with masculine pronouns.

“What time should he go in the oven?”

“Will we cook him at 325 or 350?”

“I think he should be covered.”

“I’ll stuff him while you peel the putaydas.”

Grandma was a farm girl. She always called them putaydas. Putaydas and tumaydas.

I was reading a story about a family that had been separated for years and then reunited by a Christmas miracle. It was an emotional tale, both happy and sad, and I was trying desperately to read it aloud without crying. I wasn’t very successful.

“I’m such a baby,” I thought as I paused yet again to regain my composure.

The book was one Mother had bought – ordered, I suppose – from Readers’ Digest. It was a coffee table, hardcover collection of Christmas stories, recipes and holiday decorating ideas. I had read this particular story earlier that day and I had quite enjoyed it.

“This is really beautiful,” I’d thought. “I should share it with the others.”

Both Dad and Grandma had given permission and so there I was, blubbering practically, as I read to my family. I have a large family. There were eight of us altogether: Mum and Dad had six kids. Donna was the oldest. Pat was my big brother, indeed my only brother, and my idol. He was seven years my senior, born the year after Donna. Helen was next. I was the fourth, followed four years later by the twins, Jill and June. Dad said he called it quits when we began to arrive two at a time.

I stared at the page, trying to make out the text through a veil of tears. The son in my story and his new family had just arrived and were being welcomed by the mother and father. I found it heart-wrenching. I felt so sorry for all the people who are alone in the world and I suddenly became so intensely aware of how lucky I was to have a family who loved me. I had to stop reading. Again. Something dripped on the page and I hoped it was a tear for my nose seemed to be crying in sympathy. I wished I had a Kleenex.

My sisters were known to be an emotional group of which I was an accepted member. We used to cry over things we saw on television. We cried when Lassie came home. We cried when Bambi’s mother died. And the night when all the Who’s down in Whoville first welcomed The Grinch, Jill and June joined us and a river a tears ran from the living room. Mum never cried, though. She was always too busy in the kitchen or in the laundry room. Or sewing. She didn’t have time to cry. And Dad, well … Dad’s don’t cry, do they? I never saw my brother shed a tear either.

But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t hold back my tears. When I feel very sad or very happy, I cry. I guess I’m more like the girls that way. I hated it. Men don’t cry. Tears are for girls. Nobody ever told me that. No one in my family ever made fun of me for my weepy nature. But I wanted to be a tough guy, like my dad and my brother and Charles Bronson.

I closed the book on my thumb and looked up helplessly at the faces around the table. Each face showed kindness. Each gaze held the promise of tolerance, patience, acceptance. In every heart, there was Love. I knew it. I could feel it. And that made me even more tearful. I felt my lip quivering and I made a sound – a kind of laughing, moaning sound – and I managed an embarrassed grin.

Grandma smiled and her grey eyes twinkled behind her glasses.

“Finish up, dear. Dinner’s getting cold. You done good.”

Mum and Dad were smiling too. Dad reached behind him and plucked a tissue from the box on the sideboard. He handed it to me and said, ”It’s a real good story, Dale. Here. Wipe your nose and finish up. We’re hungry.” And he winked at Mum.

I blew my nose and wiped my eyes and counted silently as the mantle clock chimed six. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Then I finished the story.

“Thank you, Dale,” Mum said. “Now let’s bow our heads so Grandma can say grace.”

I sat with my head down and heard, perhaps for the first time, the blessing Grandma had spoken hundreds of times before.

“Father we thank Thee for Thy care.
For food, friends, and kindnesses we share.
May we forever mindful be,
Of home and country, and of Thee.

Amen.”