Tastes of Short Mountain

The Culinary Rewards of Community Living

by Sandorfag

O NE DAY THIS PAST WINTER, during a period of sun deprivation, collective depression, and intense interpersonal conflict in our community, one of our members, Ross, had a craving for ravioli. He had never made it before. None of us had. But in the spirit of creative discovery that guides us through trying all sorts of things we've never done before, Ross consulted that most essential kitchen reference book, The Joy of Cooking, or "Joy" as we affectionately call her in our kitchen.

As Ross made the dough, other members, seeking the simple healing of a creative group experience, joined the project. We defrosted and ground up meat from our goats for a meat filling; we added garlic and herbs to fresh goat cheese for a cheese filling; we made a vegan sweet potato filling and two different sauces. When the dough was rolled out and the raviolis assembled, a whole team of us was laughing, joking, and stuffing raviolis. It was fun creating a special treat for our community. By the time we consumed our magnificent ravioli feast, the food itself was the least significant nourishment we received from the meal. Just preparing the food together was a ritual of healing.

In our community, much of our sharing, celebration, ritual, work, nurturing, experimentation, and even conflict revolves around food. Like most aspects of our life here at Short Mountain, food is lush and abundant, varied and chaotic, nourishing and expressive. Food provides a terrain where every member of the resident community, as well as the hundreds of visitors who pass through each year, can share talents, creativity, and love. And share they do.

Sometimes it's literally about food. Though we live in a remote rural area without easy access to cultural amenities such as ethnic foods, we regularly enjoy cuisine from all over the world. Often we share the foods of our own heritage, for example when Brian makes his mother's hearty Polish peroshki dumplings, or the mis-matched combinations of Jewish foods Delilah, MaxZine, and I cook to celebrate confused traditional holidays, such as Matzo Ball Soup for the Fourth of July on Beltane.

We also like to explore new ethnic food territory. A homemade honey wine in three different flavors (banana, ginger, and coffee) inspired an Ethiopian feast Charlie and I served up last week at IDA, a neighboring community in our evolving local "community of communities" in queer middle Tennessee. (Editor's note, the members of IDA consciously use "queer" to reclaim it as a positive term.) However, the theme meal I can taste still was garlic night for 200 people at our gathering last fall. We had a team peeling garlic nearly around the clock for two days. We served roasted whole garlic cloves, garlic mashed potatoes, garlic bread, garlic sauerkraut, garlic this and garlic that, and to top it off, garlic chocolate cheesecakes. Incongruous combinations often turn out great. Pinky is our patron saint of new bold spice-combining frontiers - daring to go where no chef has gone before.

Other times food and coming together at mealtimes serves as a vehicle for theatre. At another gathering the IDA community served up "The International House of Psycho-drama." I've long since forgotten the food I ate that night, but I don't think I could ever forget the wailing, screaming, psychotic release of the event. Some folks complained that they like to eat in peace, which I do, too, but rules are made to be broken, and good theatre is about commanding an audience's attention, and what better place to command a crowd's undivided attention than while they're waiting for food?

Folks in our community also create more traditionally sacred food rituals. Last Halloween Keer decorated the kitchen in paper lanterns and prepared an elaborate harvest festival, with processions, ritual, and lots of scrumptious autumn foods. We have also created ritualized eating experiences, such as the meal where we fed each other, rather than ourselves, each mouthful.

Our community's relationship with food does not begin in the kitchen. One value that brings all us post-urban queers together deep in the woods is our desire to live close to the land. Early in the year, as the plants sprout up and the trees bud and spring is burstin' out all over, the foragers among us gather wild edible greens and flowers. We eat intoxicating wild salads with toothwort and phacelia and trout lilies and violet flowers and chickweed and cleavers and red buds. I say "intoxicating" because wild foods zing with more life force than any plants we could ever cultivate. In spring we enjoy comfrey leaf tempura, a gourmet approach to a common medicinal herb and garden weed. In summer, wild blackberries are abundant, and those who brave the thorns are abundantly rewarded. In fall, plump juicy persimmons fall from the trees.

We also have gardens and orchards, where we grow vegetables, herbs, flowers, and fruits. Our gardens are magical, eclectic, and oh so colorful. For some gardening is a central focus, and greater food self-sufficiency a goal we work toward. Our big plantings are major group efforts, and the foods we harvest from them are varied and abundant. I think of Stv's artful salads, accented always by colorful flowers. I think of Leppard digging up forgotten root vegetables in the middle of winter and warming us all with a down-to-earth stew. We raise chickens and goats, which provide us with an abundance of fresh eggs, milk, and occasionally, meat. We also have a collective passion for learning the basic processes of food transformation. From our goat milk we make cheeses and yogurt and ice cream. We also make miso, beer, wine, soymilk, sauerkraut, sprouts, wheatgrass juice, pickles and our latest food craze, seitan. And we always have fresh homemade bread, baked in an ever-evolving variety of styles.

Food in our community is not exclusively a realm of sharing, joy, and celebration. As with any other area of community life, food is rich terrain for conflict and working to find common ground. "The kitchen is a mess" or "I can't believe I live with such slobs" are periodic refrains. "Kitchen tips" as an agenda item in our weekly meetings always leads to just one more request: Could people please put the knives away this way? Store leftovers that way? Clean cast iron some other way?

Special dietary needs can also be a source of conflict. Some folks don't do dairy, others avoid black pepper and other heating spices. One doesn't like seaweed; one thinks "the spicier the better," others can tolerate only mild hotness. We generally try to respect these needs, but it is impossible to please everyone all the time. It's the same with food buying. One person loves almonds, even at $4.50 a pound, and would gladly forego coffee or sugar or whatever to have almonds around. Another can't imagine starting the day without coffee and sugar. Some people would prefer that we keep it as cheap as possible and stick to the basics, but "the basics" turn out to be different for everyone.

In a community committed to the celebration of individual expression and diversity, food helps us learn to be tolerant. Our meals are probably not what any one of us would eat on our own, but collectively we have evolved a rich culinary tradition which reflects our values and differences. One thing is certain, our meals contain a vital ingredient considerably more nourishing than vitamins, minerals, or fiber content - love.

Sandorfag is a writer, herbalist, gardener, food-fermenter, and hell-raiser, who has lived at Short Mountain Sanctuary for four years.

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