The Origin of Buddha At My Table

An Introduction

The story of this blog and my complex relationship with food began before I could utter a coherent sentence. I was raised by a single mother, a strong feminist woman who eschewed traditional female roles. She hated to cook, clean, sew, iron, or anything else her parents thought was her duty as a woman. She also happened to think of cooking and eating as necessary evils, chores to be done as efficiently as possible. So meals were by in large quick and to the point, no-frills. Because she had only slight interest in eating and much more concern for keeping our bodies trim and healthy, she put little effort into planning and preparing meals. Her theory was that if it didn’t taste good, we wouldn’t eat as much, and therefore wouldn’t get fat (not to mention the reduction in grocery bills). Overly dry baked chicken was a staple. Anything tasty was not, especially if it contained sugar or fat. 

When I was in elementary school, I remember there was a poor (rich) girl who had her lunch stolen every day by an enterprising classmate. Other kids traded bits and pieces from their lunch boxes such as exotic european candies, little packets of chips, homemade cookies, dried fruit snacks and juice drinks. Not once did anyone even feign interest in what was in my brown sack, except to poke fun. Half a sandwich and an apple was not exciting, especially if the sandwich was some sort of health food concoction such as cream cheese and trail mix on whole wheat bread.

One day while in the supermarket my mother appeared at the cash register with a cake. My sister's eyes widened and my mouth gaped in disbelief. “What is it for?” my sister questioned. “Is it really for us?” I asked. Our shock at the sight of our mother purchasing a cake for us was obvious, as was that of the on-lookers who thought we must have been extremely deprived children to be making such a fuss over a little cake. We weren’t exactly. My mother’s prudence was only part of the story.

Since my mother was a high powered corporate executive, her work days were full and long and travel was frequent. Therefore we spent many days and nights at my grandparents’ house. My grandparents were in no way extravagant. They were extremely frugal even though they had plenty of money. Products of the Great Depression, they kept a huge stash of canned and dry goods in the garage, shopped at discount stores, and darned their socks over and over again instead of throwing them out and purchasing new ones as we would do today.

My grandfather spent much of his time in the garden growing zucchini, tomatoes, carrots, spinach, and Gravenstien apples, as well as ornamental corn and flowers. He baked fresh bread and rolls and my grandmother baked cakes and cookies. Now my grandmother’s cookies were something to get excited about. In fact they were so good that the Seattle Times published a full page expose on her cookies in the 1950s. Chocolate chip cookies, meringues, coffee cake and poppy seed cake were some of her most mouth watering goodies. She baked dozens of cookies, packed them in big Folger's coffee cans and tucked them away in a second freezer in the garage so that whenever anyone visited there would be treats on hand.

Until I was about ten, I headed to my grandmother’s house after school and without fail, waiting for me on the kitchen table would be a large glass of milk and a sweet treat. I loved grandma's delicacies then and I still love sweets today. Tea has supplanted the milk but on most days I still crave baked goods in the late afternoon.

When I turned sixteen and was officially able to work I decided to find a job to help pay for ski lessons, records and the other various desires of a teenage girl in the 80's. A neighbour suggested I apply at a gourmet food store in a nearby shopping centre. I inquired about employment at a few other places around the area, but when I walked into Pasta & Co. I was instantly at home. The shop sold freshly made pasta and sauces, pre-made main dishes ready for warming, sides of pasta and vegetable salads, and a plethora of other gourmet delicacies. Retail staff people were not referred to as sales people but rather as “meal planners”. We participated in trainings, tastings, and cooking classes and were tested on our new found knowledge. The quizzes included questions such as; "Where are the three places vanilla beans originate?" "What is the difference between Italian, Californian, and Spanish olive oil?" "What does extra virgin mean?" "How long does it take to cook fettuccine so it is al dente?" "What type of sauce is appropriate to top hazelnut tortellini?" and "How much penne do you need to serve 4 people?"

I started as a dish washer and over a ten year period held most positions in the company including pasta maker, cook, delivery driver, retail manager, and administrative assistant…and my love for food blossomed. It was like an alcoholic working in a pub. I ate all day, drank all evening and became increasingly rotund, unhealthy, and miserable. I eventually left the food industry and moved on to a high-tech career, but the weight didn’t come off until a couple of years later when I was living in a Tibetan refugee settlement in India.

 

In India I rented a small studio apartment on a hillside beneath the Dhauladhar Mountains. The concrete building encompassed eight dwellings of various sizes. Mine consisted of a small room containing two single wooden beds with mattresses as thin as cardboard, a kitchen just large enough to stand in that held a double propane burner and a sink that had running water (sometimes), and an attached private bathroom  with a western style toilet and a shower tap protruding from the wall. The shower head was attached to a small hot water heater which took 45 minutes to heat and provided enough water for a 5 minute shower (sometimes). Electricity and water came and went like tides, and I just prayed that I didn’t have both out at the same time.

This style of apartment was luxurious by Indian standards, particularly in an area teaming with refugees who had next to nothing, and surprisingly it became more than enough for me as well, as I eased into my new surroundings. Becoming used to my new home was far easier than figuring out what to do with my time. When I first arrived I was busy exploring the village, getting over jet lag and meeting with friends of friends. Tibetans have a tradition of sending gifts to loved ones if they hear of anyone traveling their way, so I arrived in India with a large suitcase full of gifts in addition to a backpack of my own belongings. After unloading the gifts, and finding my way around the small village, I had little to do. The volunteer position I thought I set up from home, didn’t pan out as expected .I managed to keep myself busy during the days with studies, exploration and eventually with tutoring and enjoying my new found acquaintances, but as the sun set my monk and nun friends would return to their monasteries, and I would run home before my landlords locked the outside gate. There I was in a small concrete room until day break with no telephone, no internet, no computer, no television, no radio, no family, not even my familiar foods. I was completely alone with my own thoughts and feelings. I meditated, read and studied and an amazing thing happened. My loneliness and boredom faded and I became quite comfortable with the quiet and solitude. I also began to shrink. I wasn’t sure at first if I was getting smaller or if my clothes were stretching. I am rather incompetent at washing and wringing clothes by hand so over time they became increasingly misshapen and brown. However friends began to comment on my diminishing size and eventually it became clear that I was indeed losing weight.

Perhaps the weight loss was in part because of an increase in exercise since living on a mountain side meant hiking up a trail every time I left home. Maybe it was partly due to a number of intestinal bugs I weathered, or somewhat a result of a change in food choices. Likely all of the above played a part, but it was also clear that I was eating a lot less food. My sister came to visit and noticed a marked change in the amount I consumed. Why was I eating less? It wasn’t because food was expensive. An extravagant meal in a restaurant cost the equivalent of one US dollar, and most meals could be had for a half or a quarter of that. I wasn’t purposefully dieting either. I simply needed or wanted less food then I had ever before. Why?

I surely did eat, and my attachment for food did not completely disappear. I became quite fond of Tibetan dumplings (momo) and buns (Ti mo), noodle soups (Thuk pa) and stir fries, even though Tibetans are not known for their culinary acumen. I enjoyed Indian Dhaba stands serving dhals and curries from the side of the road and spicy Kashmiri Chai. There were also a number of cafes in the village which catered to the travelers appetite, so I indulged in muesli with fresh fruit and homemade yogurt, veggie burgers, breads and cakes that where thick and dense due to the high altitude, even gnocchi at an "Italian" restaurant. I also continued my tradition of afternoon tea and cookies. However, the portions I ate were smaller, and were most likely eaten more slowly as I had no place to be other than in the moment. I was satisfied easily.  Life was relatively stress-free. Yes I had to navigate the complex and heart wrenching culture that is India, including pushy traders, corrupt policemen looking out for a blackmail opportunity, bureaucratic red tape, overly zealous suitors, inequalities, the impoverished, the abused, child servants, lepers, disease, dirt, noise, dust, heat, dishonesty and distrust, as well as intense spirituality, loyalty, color, vibrancy, melody, and beauty. India is a land of contradictions but my mind was rather calm, at ease.

In addition to my quiet evenings in my room I also spent time on a shared balcony watching the sun rise or set, monkeys scammer about looking for food, monks go to and fro, and workers ferry bricks piled high on their heads to a nearby building site. About once a week I would follow the winding trail up the hill to a waterfall and there, perched on top a boulder the size of a house, I would relax in the sun, watching people wash their colourful clothes and bodies in the flowing stream of water below. I breathed deeply, listened carefully and contemplated meanings.I was also acutely aware that this time of freedom was fleeting so did my best to enjoy every moment.

When my wallet was empty, and my visa extensions exhausted, I returned to my home town of Seattle, and to a career in the burgeoning dot com world. The american "super sized" lifestyle could have driven my weight up instantly. I was even working for a company with the company slogan, “Get Big Fast!” but I was determined not to become a puffball again. The weight did stay off for many years (give or take 10 pounds or so), even though my diet wasn’t always the healthiest. A busy and demanding career meant that I far too often had Starbucks for lunch and take out Thai for dinner. But despite my young urban professional lifestyle, I kept some semblance of peace of mind by regular attendance at Buddhist meditation sessions and teachings, and twice yearly silent retreats.

Eventually my yearnings for travel, adventure, and further learning led me to Australia and post-graduate study. Disconnected from my comforts of family, friends and spiritual community, the scatterings of peace of mind I once held, became even fewer, and when I fell in love and became pregnant shortly (very shortly) after, my mind and body changed drastically.

I put on an enormous 60 pounds during my pregnancy, and became an emotional mess. My cravings were on steroids, guiding me towards over-indulgence of childhood comfort foods I had previously grown to abhor. I wanted chocolate chip cookies, brownies, bologna sandwiches made with white bread and mayonnaise, Kraft macaroni and cheese, lemon sorbet (lemon anything actually) and turkey pot pies. I had heard about the craziness of pregnancy of course but I didn’t know it would continue into motherhood. I read a number of books on pregnancy, motherhood, and baby care and attended pre-natal classes at the local women's hospital, but it just didn’t fully sink in what I as getting myself into. I envisioned serenely feeding a wee one in a rocking chair, as he fell asleep in my arms, and spending time reading and meditating and contemplating. Without undertaking paid work, I suppose I imagined I would spend time similarly to the way I did in India, only with a babe at my side. Oh was I wrong!

As new parents we were so busy trying to do the basics of sleeping, feeding, and cleaning up various bodily fluids coming out of both ends our bundle of joy that there was hardly enough time to use the toilet or take a shower. My son seemed to scream incessantly unless he was being held and/or fed and often even then. I was terrified by the responsibility of caring for this little person and instinctively bristled every time he wailed. At my first mums group at the local maternal and child health centre, I remember changing my son’s nappy three times, as well as trying bottle and breast all in an effort to stop him from wailing. I honestly had no idea what to do to ease his discomfort, and was desperately trying everything I could think of to prove to my fellow mums (and perhaps myself too) that I actually did. 

Over time the crying became less frequent, the sleep became more so, and I eased into my new role.Not that parenthood of a preschooler is easy but now that my son is almost four I am more confident and comfortable with my little boy. Nevertheless,  I still carry 40 of those 60 “baby weight” additions. With parenthood came a whole slew of lifestyle changes that would disturb most anyone’s calmness of mind; lack of sleep, lack of money, lack of control, lack of time to myself…there just hasn’t been the same possibility of going out to a meditation session, finding time alone to read, contemplate, meditate, or exercise. Discovering even a few minutes to myself in which sleep is not a necessity is still challenging. And then there’s that little being who both makes my heart sing, and pushes every one of my buttons (at once). I have become so much more acquainted with anger, frustration, fear, patience, and altruistic love since becoming a mother and stress has a whole new depth of meaning.   

Of course I have tried a number of methods to lose the weight, including fad diets, exercise programs, and nutritional changes but the results are never profound enough to keep me going for long so I return to my habits and gain the weight back. So why have I had such a challenge in losing this time? My age, emotional eating, stress, inadequate sleep, all of these things can play into weight gain but I have begun to ask myself some additional questions. What is ultimately causing my stress? What is different (other than my mini-me at my side)? Although there have been a multitude of changes that have come along with partner-hood and parenthood, something else struck me when I began to probe further.

When I lost a significant amount of weight last time, and kept if off, I was (at least minimally) using Buddhist techniques and practices. I was meditating, taking retreats, and communing with like-minded practitioners in a Buddhist meditation centre. I have therefore started to wonder what the Buddhist teachings say about food and our relationship to it. How can they help someone like me transform my relationship with food and restore me to a more healthy state of mind and body? What would Buddha say if he were seated at my table for dinner? What would I ask and how would I act if he were dining with me?

My intent is to explore these questions, looking into the Buddhist teachings and talking with Buddhist practitioners to find some answers. I’ve decided to share my thoughts as I research and contemplate because I suspect the info I find might help others too. Therefore I have developed Buddha At My Table as a conduit to share findings and to create a community of like-minded people on the path.