On Food. Love. And Human Being.

This is a love letter.

Shelley R?stlund tells me food is my love-language. I sort of know this: I’m a feeder. But I also have the wordage (she says) to do justice to the food I love to eat and to serve.

Today, just back from Turkey and running on 3 hours’ sleep (what I got on the plane doesn’t really count…) I've been thinking about the fabulous Turkish food I've been eating on my yoga retreat, and how food and I relate to each other, and how, in turn, food relates to life.

I decided to ask the wonderful poet Imtiaz Dharker if she can say it for me. (Her family came from Pakistan to live in Glasgow when she was a child – she knows all about ‘otherness’.)

I came across this poem of hers when I was choosing something wonderful for my sixth form literature group, in a very white, middle-class school; I wanted to help them open their eyes, widen their horizons and help them understand ‘other’ a little better.

In a horrific couple of weeks, where ‘otherness’ – and our incapacity to tolerate, accept, or celebrate it – has been very much forefront of my mind, and the news, ‘How to Cut a Pomegranate’ is partly a celebration of food: of the beautiful fruit I enjoyed seeing on the trees in Turkey, and which no doubt grow bountifully in Pakistan, Israel, and other hot parts of the world, their fruits rosy-red and round like cartoon Christmas decorations.

I scrumped and scoffed on the grass looking out to the mountains surrounding Dalyan, whilst the crazy goats bleated and capered madly in the field next to me.

But this poem, I feel, is also a celebration of the diversity of nature. Of the magic that happens when we live more in harmony with nature, and with each other.

It’s a celebration of our humanity. And it's about what constitutes 'home', a topic very top-of-mind for me right now.

The beauty, the preciousness, the vibrancy, and the sensuous joy to be found in food, in simple ingredients, shared around the table with friends old and new, from diverse backgrounds, of different ages and life experiences, is part of being human.

We are of the universe, diverse and wonderful creatures, each of us a precious jewel.

Let’s get together round a table and celebrate that, wherever we are, and in whatever ways we can. Let's keep it simple. When we do this, we are, in ways that are both mystical and beautiful, home.

Food is medicine for life.

Sitting around a table in communion with others is part of what keeps us well.

I’ve been doing that this week with many new yoga friends from various parts of the UK and beyond; coming home to the Popsicle and the crazy chickens, and Mr Lovely, is a differently wonderful experience. (Seeing a stealthy fox disappear silently into a hedge and NOT running over a hedgepig at 3.15 am, and spotting a rabbit on my walk this morning also brought me great joy.)

Let us life well.

Let us do as many things as we can that bring us joy and nourish us.

Let us celebrate life in all its fullness, without criticism and judgment of others, without ‘othering’.

We are more the same than we are different.

Here’s the poem – see what you think. Everyone brings themselves to their reading; you may disagree with my interpretations; equally, I'd love you to share your own. All views are valid and open for consideration. That's what being human means.

Be well; back in two weeks. ??

How to Cut a Pomegranate? – Imtiaz Dharker, 2006

‘Never,' said my father,

'Never cut a pomegranate

through the heart. It will weep blood.

Treat it delicately, with respect.

Just slit the upper skin across

four quarters.

This is a magic fruit,

so when you split it open, be

prepared for the jewels of the world to

tumble out,

more precious than garnets,

more lustrous than rubies,

lit as if from inside.

Each jewel contains a living seed.

Separate one crystal.

Hold it up to catch the light.

Inside is a whole universe.

No common jewel can give you this.’

Afterwards, I tried to make

necklaces

of pomegranate seeds.

The juice spurted out, bright

crimson,

and stained my fingers, then my

mouth.

I didn't mind. The juice tasted of

gardens

I had never seen, voluptuous

with myrtle, lemon, jasmine,

and alive with parrots’ wings.

The pomegranate reminded me

that somewhere I had another home.