Christian Educators' Journal

Learning to cook alone

by Hillary Watson Kobernick

When I left my intentional community at the end of this summer, I thought I was entering heaven — to live alone, at last. After a year of sharing space, food, money, and even a collective name (“let’s invite the volunteer house,” or “maybe the volunteer house wants to come over for dinner”), I was no longer a unit, but my own person. Just Hillary. No more sharing the bathroom or wiping down tables that I had not made dirty.

Most of all, I couldn’t wait to eat my first meal. For months, I had been groaning through dinners of baked spaghetti and split pea soup. Every time I looked at the bucket of fake butter in the fridge, I’d been reminding myself, “Wait until you move out. You can buy whatever kind of butter you want.”

Yet, when I made that monumental first trip to the grocery store, I was confused. What kind of jelly did Hillary buy? I stopped short in the produce section, wondering, Do I like grapefruit? I was pretty sure the answer was no, but I bought one anyway. It had been a popular item in my community house, and so it seemed to belong in the fridge, even if it didn’t seem to belong inside my mouth. As I reached for the salsa, I hesitated. Does a Hillary prefer mild salsa or medium? I had always resisted spicy foods, but my old community had redefined my understanding of “spicy.” My impulse was to stock up on black beans, a common dinner base in my old house, but I had to stop and consider: How many black beans does a Hillary eat?

I didn’t know how to quantify myself. How large do I make a meal, if it’s only for one person? I only knew that I ate less than a Cameron, more than a Sarah if it was cookies, but less than a Jennie if it was pasta.

A month after leaving, I still sometimes find myself in the grocery store, reaching for a food as if reaching for the memory of my community. I eat grapefruit not because I like it, but because I like the people who like it. I like the community it brings me, to split a grapefruit with a friend at breakfast. The discipline of living in community has left me with the habit of compromise, of switching between brown eggs and white eggs, between what I love and what others love. I hope it is a habit that does not die easy. Even though I am a self-proclaimed picky eater, I like sitting down at a table — my own or someone else’s — with food I would not choose for myself. It reminds me that I am not only what I eat, but I am who I eat. When I eat in community, I become community. Sharing a meal is almost a human kind of communion. We take and eat of each other’s worlds, lives and taste buds. And we are the richer for it.

your comments

amyscheer
Sep 10 2010
03:25 PM

Hillary,

I think I get what you’re saying—that your past history colors the way you now see food and the sharing of a meal. But your community experience seemed to be a negative one, according to the start of your essay, so is it a good thing to be reminded of these times when you sit down at your own table? Are you saying you’re the richer for it, but you’d still prefer to be alone?

angelavaags
Sep 13 2010
02:29 PM

hiwatson09
Sep 15 2010
01:54 PM

hiwatson09
Sep 15 2010
01:59 PM

Hi Amy,

Thanks for pushing that out. My community living experience was hard, for sure, but it wasn’t negative. This is more a reflection on the balancing that happened when I left the intentional community. I’ve found space to rest and to eat alone. But I’ve also learned that eating and cooking alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be (or all that I’d idealized it to be when I didn’t have it).

Because community is so shaped by food, there’s a special kind of transformation that happens when people eat together—regardless of whether or not it is done in the spirit of intentional community. I hope that clarifies what I meant. If not, continue to push me.

amyscheer
Sep 19 2010
04:02 PM

Ah. I understand. Glad to hear it’s all come full circle for you.