The Taste of Home
Recently, I listened to an episode of Talk Easy, where host Sam Fragoso interviewed chef and author Samin Nosrat. Fragoso notoriously plows the depths to uncover specific nuggets about his guests’ lives. His incisive interjections keep guests off-balance. It’s disarming.
Later in the episode, they discuss Nosrat’s willingness to go the extra mile to uncover the wonders of fresh ingredients. Fragoso interjects with a story about Nosrat’s mother. He mentions that she used to take them to a specific bakery more than an hour from home. Nosrat remembers that it was 88 miles from her childhood home.
Taking the bait, she continues down memory lane. Nosrat explained that her mother drove them across California so that she could share her Iranian roots. She wanted to offer something special for her children, “the taste of home.” Nosrat shares this intimate detail that many immigrants can relate to: that a piece of them is far off, but awakened with the senses.
When I was a college student, I stumbled out of bed one Sunday morning to attend a high church service. I was disenchanted with Christianity. I hadn’t been to church in weeks. Instead, sometimes I’d drive around town. Sometimes I stayed in bed.
That morning, I shuffled into the quiet sanctuary for a 7:30 am service. I’ve never been able to sleep. The elderly regulars had already greeted the morning as I found a pew near the rear of the room.
I remember struggling to understand the order of service. I didn’t know the old hymns. The organ seemed to signal us to rise and fall to our knees. I didn’t know what was going on, but the irregularity shook me from my cynicism. The pastor came to the front of the congregation and delivered a poignant 10-minute homily about the grace found at the foot of the cross before inviting everyone to partake of Holy Communion.
A few members joined him at the front to prepare the elements for the congregation. I watched as they worked with care. I used to help my dad prepare communion at church growing up. I’d fill the cups with grape juice and gather some wafers that would be passed one by one to people who knew me like family.
I wish my mind lingered on those memories more often. When it’s time to remember Christ’s death, my memories often move towards feelings of unworthiness and shame, of all my mistakes being reasons that I shouldn’t come to the table. I was battling this narrative when the usher signaled that it was my turn to go to the front. I almost turned him down. I hadn’t been living “right,” and I was scared. Still, something told me to step forward. As I made my way down, we were meant to kneel, to receive the elements.
The body of Christ. The blood of Christ.
I held back tears until I got back to my seat. I kept my head down and wept. When the procession ended, I raised my head. I saw a young man in a wheelchair behind me. There wasn’t room for him to come to the front. The old building was too narrow. Then I saw the pastor make his way toward him to ensure that he, too, received the sustenance of Christ.
Suddenly, I understood the prodigal son. I felt what it meant to let those thoughts of uncertainty fade out of my mind, if only for a moment. I didn’t need an argument, a reason, or a logical answer. I don’t think anyone actually wants that.
Sometimes, all we need is the taste of home.
