Photo of Oberlin students (left to right) Elijah, Bella, Lucy, Brooke, and Caterina forming a heart with their limbs during a lunch at Tank Co-op. Photo taken by Rhys Shepherd.
There was snot, a sore throat, then the body aches and chills, but it was ultimately the two little pink lines on my covid test that banished me to my dorm room for a week of lonesome recovery. During this time I observed a strict schedule: wake up, eat, sleep, eat, then sleep again–only to be interrupted by the occasional blowing of my nose. Being one of the few activities I could partake in, one would think mealtimes were an anticipated highlight.
Ink drawing of coop Saveplate covered with plastic wrap and labeled with author’s name, meal date, and dietary restrictions (NR indicates no dietary restrictions).
I live and eat in Tank co-op, where co-opers do 5 hours of cooking and cleaning each week to help feed the 80 hungry college students who dine there. When it comes to illness, rather than joining amongst friends to serve up hot food over hot topics of conversation, your meals are limited to a Saveplate. The Saveplate is a plate of food slopped together in the last minutes of a cook shift. Labeled with your name, the date, and allergens, it’s swaddled in plastic wrap and thrown in the refrigerator for later eating. I enjoy Tank meals and rarely miss them. However, covid quarantine ensured a week’s worth of Saveplates.
Ink drawing of steaming co-op serving pot and ladle ready for meal.
On Wednesday, the head cooks had crafted a particularly interestingly mishmashed dish: tofu, coleslaw, and celeriac (the latter of which I had never even heard of). It turns out to be a winter vegetable also known as celery root. Not so surprisingly, it tastes much like celery. But perhaps more surprisingly, it can be mashed into a fine and thick mush of puree. Looking at my email announcing the night’s menu, I imagined the usual rush of co-op diners. Students mulling around waiting to hear the very anticipated word: LINE! The dispersed group beelines towards the dining room doors, energetically lining up. People serve themselves from the giant steaming pots and pans that reveal the night’s delicacies.
While I reminisced about this well-accustomed scene, I received a little knock on my door signaling the delivery of my Saveplate. Set up at my desk, I briefly studied the plate before unwrapping the lukewarm dish from its now condensated cover. Abiding by my mother’s veggies first rule, I gave the coleslaw a go…well, it tasted like raw cabbage and I can’t offer much else. The tofu had been baked, but was now in a much soggier, saggier form. It was chewy…somewhat salty…but primarily gave the impression of a singular word–limp. Finally, I drew my fork ready to embark on the last part of my meal. Expectations were low from my previous bites and the thick celeriac glop splattered across my plate wasn’t offering much hope. Nevertheless, I fearlessly struck the three metal prongs deep into the gelatinous mass, then slowly turned up my wrist to catch the bite. But before my tongue could reach, I was stopped by pure shock. The rubber-like substance had peeled off my plate all in one fell swoop. Now hanging off the end of my fork, it jiggled moving in a jello-like way. Floating above my plate it became a “thing” rather than something that should be put inside my body. Just then, it promptly slid off my fork and flopped onto the plate with a plop. My appetite, much like the once condensated plastic wrap now hugging the side of my plate, had dissipated.
Ink drawing of celeriac glop sliding off fork and flopping back onto a plate.
Sitting there, I had an intimate opportunity to devote all energy to what lay before me–to really taste, look, smell, and hear my food. I had all the ingredients necessary for the savoring process: 1. A safe place I felt comfortable (my dorm room) 2. Endless time away from distraction and responsibility (a 5 day quarantine) 3. Attention and intention (a desire, perhaps need, to enjoy even the tiniest moment in isolation). However, despite my attempts, I could not savor. The food felt distant and cold. Now a microwave may have helped remedy some of this dissatisfaction, but it could likely never elevate a Saveplate to savoring appeal. In that moment, looking at the congealed mess on my plate, I realized that a mere blast of heat could not replace the lacking warmth of company which I truly longed for.
Ink drawing of spotlight shining down on a Saveplate indicating the potential of savoring during quarantine.
The moments I truly savored were connected to moments of connecting. I savored the view: of chewing mouths and vibrantly gesticulated conversation. I savored the sounds: of boisterous arguments and energetic applause for the (more typical) deliciously cooked meal. I savored the feelings: of warmth and crampedness that come with squeezing 15 people around one dining table and the scratchy feel of carpet when you’re the 16th person who couldn’t fit. I savored the smells: of freshly baked bread, the strong scent of cumin that travels all the way up to the third floor, and the waft of burnt beans that unfortunately travels just as far. And of course I savored the tastes: of hand-pressed tortillas still warm on my tongue and the first bite of cinnamon-infused chili beans after co-headcooking my very first meal!
Ink drawing of red heart surrounded by colorful swirls and polka dots, representative of the loving energy felt in Tank Co-op.
Despite the dramatics of the celeriac incident, food is often savored within the co-op. There is still acute attention to the flavor and pairing of ingredients, a deep appreciation for the perfectly cooked element, and gasps of awe at a truly pleasurable bite of food. However, it is rare that this savoring happens alone, after meal time, when no one is around. Because what truly makes the moment savorfull is the ability to share it with your fellow diners.
In co-ops I often savor moments–some stand out, but most are everyday and minute. They are moments that simply happen, but catch you unexpecting. Moments that fill me with deep gratitude and ones that make my heart swell in admiration for the place I am in and the people who surround me. It’s a culmination of the physical senses and an emotional pull as well. Very specific moments that make me want to wrap my arms around it with all my might and hold it in place to stop time. Moments that make me smile simply from remembering them. Tiny little isolated moments that make even the most isolating times more bearable.
Brooke Levan is a second year student at Oberlin College studying as an Environmental Studies Major with a Food Studies Concentration and Studio Art minor. She enjoys all things food related–cooking for her student-run dining cooperative, growing foods in her backyard in San Diego, and finding fun eateries when she travels.
