Breaking Bread

 I keep thinking of a weekend a couple months back where I was thrown back in time, in more ways than one.

When I moved out on my own 35 years ago, I went straight to my own apartment; no dorms, or roommates, or any of the ups and downs that go with cohabitation. My first—and last—roommate was my husband. In November, I became a researcher in residence and stayed at the accommodation provided. For some reason, I pictured a room in an old house, that looked vaguely Bed and Breakfast-y. 

Turned out it wasn’t that, at all. We stayed in a new building at the foot of the mountain that looked like a standalone dorm. In it, was a common living area, dining space, complete kitchen, and four bedrooms, each with twin beds. We were directed to bring our own food, if we wanted, or options were available in town, or at the box store development about 20 minutes away.

I packed light, as I always do. I brought a couple microwave bags of Indian food, a few tins of sardines, some fruit, and a few snack bags of nuts.  I saw one of my roommates for the weekend packed a lot more than I did. I also saw that coffee was provided, so my unofficial job for the weekend was getting the morning pot of coffee going. (Apparently this was the best thing ever for the other roommate, which kinda makes me laugh, because it wasn’t that big a deal).

The first night, the heavy packer and I settled in to watch some Netflix (because we don’t have Netflix at home and there were a couple things I wanted to watch).  The next evening, bad weather ended our session early. I settled in to watch something else while my roommate busied herself in the kitchen. She brought a bowl of gnocchi with tomato sauce over to me, saying she made too much for herself.

I thanked her. I’m sitting here now thinking about this; someone who I just met giving me a bowl of food.

I didn’t realize I was hungry until I tasted it; and it was so good, I sat with every bite. Intentionally. I thanked her profusely, and she retreated back to her room. And I sat with this little bowl of pasta thinking it was literally the best meal ever.

That weekend was something special. I signed up for the course because it was something I wanted to do that had zero to do with autism or anything else that constitutes my normal. And the entire weekend, from the class work to the field work, to the pizza party and owl banding our last night, took me completely out of my usual routine and gave me a glimpse of other possibilities.

I was happy to get on my way back to it, though. I planned my route home intentionally, enjoying the backroads that brought me first to my favorite second home and visiting with friends, then to my favorite Greek Orthodox Church for some amazing food to go to bring back to the boys.

I keep thinking that weekend should have been most memorable for the raptors and all the personalities I met.

But I keep coming back to that amazing little meal.

I think made magical because it was unexpected. And because someone else made it.

For me.