We are for unbuttoning your trousers to make room for dessert.

We are for happy crying at the dinner table, for long silences and the contented clasping of bellies. 

We are for following the smell of a stranger. 

We are for an odor that smacks you in the face.

We are for things that are slimy, acrid, nectarous and oozing, 

for food that wraps its arms around you, like a grandmother.

We are for using your hands if you want.

We are for the clink of silverware, and the luxury of jam on warm bread. 

We are for making something out of nothing, for ingredients you can and can’t pronounce.

We are for asking more of people, and then asking them again.

We are for telling someone you just met a secret—whether

terrible or noble—as though you had known them all your life.

We are for learning that never ends: for books that have not been written, 

for books out of print, and for books that are only beginning…

We for the doing and undoing of things, 

for hard hands, soft hands and soil-clogged fingernails. 

We are for tablecloths smattered with butter and lard, 

for the defiling of a white plate by the bodies of feasts.

We are for food that will not last.

We are for grasping at mulberries, in spite of the scrapes, and licking the juices that drip, like wine. 

We are for waiting for the season to provide

We are for figs that are hand-plucked from trees. 

And reveling in delight at the universe within.

We are for feeding them to your neighbor.

We are for a revolt against the tyranny of plastic boxes and of shrink-wrapped fruit. 

We are for composting as a sign of gratitude.

We are for looking a Cook in the eye.

We are for sensual rehabilitation, for a therapy that looks and feels like real connection. 

We are for retelling and rewriting and forgetting and healing. 

We are for relaxing into the pleasure.