As humans, there are some things that are ingrained into our beings. Our most animalistic traits are our desire for water, food, and shelter, but on a deeper level, we crave connection with others. Inclusivity and community are pillars of human life. We are all unique, capable individuals, but when we come together to share experiences and create memories, we become more than the sum of our material parts. Whether it be with friends, family, or even strangers, finding a sense of kinship in this world allows us to extend time and open ourselves up to a world that was once unbeknownst to us. We have been given a gift to be able to spend our lives with others, and we must find ways to foster richer connections with our time here, as we find meaning in something bigger than our solitary selves.
Sheila Squillante’s essay titled “Four Menus” presents four different seasons of her life through food and the people she shares it with. Whether it is falling in love or experiencing loss, Squillante displays benchmarks of life by way of hunger, gratitude, and sacrifice. She shows us that food is more than its material worth, stating that “It’s a revelation, that first bite,” while also utilizing food as a metaphor for inexpressible feelings. The essay is split into four sections based on emotions of love, longing, sacrifice, and devotion, respectively. Human growth and connection are difficult to quantify, but within the confines of tangible food, the ebbs and flows of her life are easily pictured. Moreover, Squillante views food as a religion. There is a sense of worship in the belief, routine, and tradition of eating, especially with loved ones. Food acts as a bonding ritual that bridges gaps between individuals so that memories and moments can be shared, and this unquantifiable connection with others can mimic a connection people find within religious experiences.
Squillante’s first “menu” illustrates how food acts as a vessel for love. She and a loved one sit across from each other and are sharing Yook Gae Jang, a Korean soup. Food can be simple, and at its core, it is used to provide us with nutrition, however, Squillante uses this meal as a metaphor for falling in love. Sharing a meal with other people is an intimate moment; the two lovers are smiling, nose-running, glistening from the heat of the food, and they suddenly no longer seem like two separate people, but act as one entity. This moment of new experience brings them closer together. Food parallels being in a relationship, as both experiences offer time for growth and insight, and at the same time, they are the products of intentionality and commitment. At one point, Squillante writes “I feel extended; I surpass myself,” after she tastes Kimchi for the first time. She has reached revelation, something larger than herself, and the discovery of this once unknown food, though it may be a minor change in her life, means her world has been extended. Not only has she been changed as an individual through this discovery of food, but by experiencing intimacy with her loved one and creating new memories, Squillante has shaped the path of her life.
I can deeply relate to food acting as a bonding ritual, as it was in the first menu. Once I was diagnosed with Celiac, it did not just fall upon me to ensure my own health and safety, but a village around me. My family, friends, and restaurant staff had to begin to take steps to make sure I was fed within my own biological confines. Food became much more than food. It became a practice and a sore-spot and, at times, an annoyance. And yet, despite the pitfalls of my diagnosis, I have never felt deeper gratitude and appreciation for those who have helped me through this. It means the world to me when someone takes time out of their day to make sure I am fed, and especially at college, my dad’s weekly “Are you eating well” texts show me abundant love. Food has a deeper value than just material items: it is what bonds people together.
In the second menu, Squillante meditates on childlessness while in Paris with friends. She is watching children play and exclaims, “I want to eat them!” She does not discuss food in this section of the essay, but regardless, the reader feels an overarching sense of craving. Hunger. The absence of food parallels the absence of children in Squillante’s life. Like the connections made over food, there is a similar lack of connection, between mother and child, within this hunger. The loss of food is innate in certain eras of life. Right now, after moving away from home, I feel a sense of disconnect from the food that was a constant in my life. I remember the routines I had with my English muffin every morning and the evenings with breakfast for dinner while watching jeopardy. So much has changed since I have come to college, but food and hunger has been constant, along with the need for human connection. I find myself already forming new routines: breakfast with friends before class and meeting people outside FOCO. I crave what I do not have, but I feel more appreciation for what I have gained: new friends and new customs.
The third menu of the essay focuses on a time when Squillante was in her twenties with her friends, and they decided that if they were to crash on an island, and were forced to eat one another, Squillante would be first. She is not promoting cannibalism but is instead offering up a metaphor for serving her friends; she would rather die and offer her body as nourishment than to watch her friends suffer. Some may debate the rationality of self-sacrifice or morality of cannibalism, but I see a sense of kinship that is hard to replicate. She writes, “I hope they are blessed with the warmth of a fire and time for slow cooking.” It is not just an allowance for their actions, but a sacrifice she is willing to make because she is grateful for their love. She gives her blessing as though this occurrence is destined to occur, as though she was always bound to serve others through food. With this, Squillante introduces a theme of food as a religious experience. The nourishment and deeper connection we gain over food is uncontrollable; it illustrates devotion to those we love, and it can offer hope, as if one were to find a higher power. To dine with someone is to share in a sacred ritual like church, and within this ritual, unbreakable bonds are discovered.
In the fourth and final menu, Squillante brings forth a final call of food as worship. She writes how food slows time, shows praise, and offers moments of reflection. Her kitchen is her church. Within it she produces “holy moments,” no longer using Sunday evenings to practice religion, but to participate in a parallel custom: supper shared with loved ones. God, to many people, is something greater than oneself that brings people together through ritual, tradition, and belief. For Squillante, food does just that. We all have ritualistic practices we carry with us through our food. I buy the same chips every time I go to the store, I eat at the same restaurant each time I want sushi, and in FOCO, I have an Arnold Palmer with every dinner. A meal is not just something that happens three times a day; they coexist together as habits, as traditions, and carry vivid memories. The intentions behind every meal, where the ingredients were harvested, who cooked it, and who shared the meal, make up a larger entity than just a plate, a fork, and a knife. The power of food is sometimes unrecognizable, mystical. It is a religious experience: to eat is to be a part of something much bigger than yourself.
When I think about my connection to some “greater power,” I find faith in the grounding sensation of tangible friendship and love. I told my mom I did not believe in God at age 13, and she had no issue with it, other than saying, “You just need a life philosophy to fall back on in the hard times.” For her, God meant reliability and comfort. On the other hand, I see something reverent in the ways I connect with people here on Earth and the methods by which we give and receive love. I love to spend quality time with loved ones, and for me, sitting down for a meal and focusing on conversation is the best way to spend time. By sharing food with others, I am connected to what I feel is my personal religion: the ties we all have to each other, to nature, and to the universe.
Food, for me, is everything. I read more ingredients lists than books. I check for allergens at the dining hall. I watch from afar as people appreciate food I will never be able to taste. As Squillante says, food “is bittersweet entirely.” In the same life you experience hunger and craving, you will eat your mom’s best homemade birthday cake. There are moments where food makes me feel disconnected from others, but it also connects me to something much larger than myself. I have family holiday meals to look back on and birthday celebrations at my friends’ favorite restaurants. I have rituals in my life that keep me healthy, and I carry belief that the people I love will help me along the way. Squillante is right when she writes about food as worship: it is something unquantifiable, something bigger than us. If you want to stop time and offer up your gratitude, share a meal.