Umami

“Umami”
The Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

Matthew 15.32-39
Then Jesus called his disciples to him and said, “I have compassion for the crowd, because they have been with me now for three days and have nothing to eat; and I do not want to send them away hungry, for they might faint on the way.” The disciples said to him, “Where are we to get enough bread in the desert to feed so great a crowd?” Jesus asked them, “How many loaves have you?” They said, “Seven, and a few small fish. ”Then ordering the crowd to sit down on the ground, he took the seven loaves and the fish; and after giving thanks he broke them and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all of them ate and were filled; and they took up the broken pieces left over, seven baskets full. Those who had eaten were four thousand men, besides women and children. After sending away the crowds, he got into the boat and went to the region of Magadan.

I minced the garlic and chopped the shallots and put them in a Dutch-oven to warm with a splash of good olive oil. I rough cut a couple of Roma tomatoes and added a good handful of fresh thyme. With a stick of butter, I tossed in some baby carrots. Turning up the heat I watched as it became thick, somewhere between a paste and a batter.

Now reduced and translucent I added the white wine and let the alcohol burn off on a heavy simmer. I tasted . . . and decided to add a can of diced tomatoes and chilies. Being patient with good music and an empty kitchen I waited to taste again. I knew it was ready because I wanted to drink the broth; I added the mussels and put the lid on the Dutch oven and set the timer for nine minutes.

The Rolling Stones sang of having no expectations, but I must admit, at this point, I had some. The mussels were spectacular, just firm enough. But the broth? O mercy! This quick meal on a Monday night revealed the essence of food for me. With food there is the cooking and there is the dining.

The dining was almost as fun as cooking. Almost. The preparation, the aromas, and reductions, that’s the fun of food for me.

For me, the highwater mark, the moment of abundance, the promise is on the cutting board not the plate. If this is a moment of confession, then I must say I love cooking more than eating. Maybe it is because I eat as I cook, taste as I go, sample each layer.

There is a moment in a gravy, a broth, a sauce, where you know, this is good because when you taste it you forget you are tasting, and you keep taking spoonful after spoonful. That is what feeds me. That moment. The taste. The Japanese have a word for this: Umami. One spoonful or a thousand: happiness has come to you.

Getting ready for today I struggled. Each time I came to the readings for today I kept getting lost in food. A part of this is a bit obvious with the feeding of the four thousand. But another part was unclear until I realized and noticed for the first time: I associate Easter with food. Not the traditional Easter fare of ham and scalloped potatoes or lamb; no. I associate easter with a good meal, a gathering of friends around a table of good conversation. This is where resurrection happens for me.

Truth be told, I think of Easter as the banquet of all people, a kind of eschatological meal where there are no divisions, a world made right with flavor. But I wasn’t sure why I thought this way.

Trying to figure it out I heard a voice say, “this is a bit bigger than you.” And then it hit me: fasting. Fasting and Lent. Easter is the end of the fast, the moment where all the food restrictions for six weeks are cast aside.

This is the feast prophesied by Carnival. Easter is about people dying for butter and meat and sugar and wine; this is when they say, “He is risen! Let’s eat!” I wasn’t worried anymore when I thought of it this way.

I wasn’t worried, but I wasn’t content. I associate Easter with food, resurrection with that moment of umami, the taste of happiness. But I don’t think of this as something delayed; I don’t associate food and fasting, the sacrifices given up once a year for Lent. The resurrection is not something I try to remember once a year. I see resurrection all the time, every day. It’s possible in every good dish.

Many years ago I was faced with a moment of sacrifice. It was a tough moment. My friend Howard and I were sitting at the YMCA talking to Michelle who was the trainer ready to help us become “fit.” This was a new program at the Y, Ready to be Fit. Friends were paired with a trainer who customizes your restoration.

Both Howard and I were former presidents of the Y, so Michele was ready for us. She was excited that these two pudgy, complacent middle-aged men were going to rely upon her to make them paragons of fitness, a resurrected Adonis. Well, at least she tried to convince us this was the case.

Michelle was the first to broach sacrifice. “What are you willing to give up; what are willing to change to be fit?” Howard was about to answer, but I stopped him. I cleared my throat and said, “I don’t know about Howard, but I am willing to sacrifice. I thought you might ask this, so I gave it some thought.

You see, right now, I eat good cheese; I drink good wine. But for this program, for this time of sacrifice I am willing to give this up. I am ready for the duration to eat only fabulous cheese and to drink only fabulous wine!” I checked Howard’s face before I turned to Michelle. His look said, “no friends are you making today.” I sensed Michelle wished her career had taken a different path, but only for a moment. Howard promised to keep me in line moving forward.

We lost Howard to cancer last year. My memories of him are many. But I keep going back to that moment at the Y. I cling to that moment. That moment and one other navigated the loss for me. The other moment with Howard was also about food. Shrimp more specifically.

I love to cook shrimp. You must be so careful, barely cook them. My favorite is small shrimp.

When they are small, or diced, all you need to do is stir them into a spicy gravy or tomato stew for just a moment. That’s it. If you cook them like this, they are sweet and tender, a burst of flavor like a tender pea just warmed in butter.

My friend Howard was a Formula One driver. Not when we met. But in his youth. You might not think of race car drivers as athletes or extremely fit, but they are. And I could always tell that my sense of lethargy and middle-aged physique was less confusing to me than to Howard. But what really bothered him, what he wanted to find again was to live in the beauty of life, and to do the right thing, a powerful life like he had found in racing. When I met him, he wanted his life to have the power he felt as a young man, but with his heart this time.

One night as we sat at my kitchen table and ate shrimp cooked properly, that night he confessed his hopes; he wanted to be a part of the church, but he wasn’t sure what he believed about God.

I told him, God is love and God would love for you to live a life of purpose and truth right now and serve the church. What he needed to do was confess his hope and live it. That’s it. There is power in truth. That was a good meal. There was, umami, happiness, and it wasn’t just the shrimp.

When I ponder the resurrection, I think of Howard at my kitchen table; I savor the notion of a life lived anew. The resurrection is not more life; it is a new way of living, a life of joy and purpose. I could see this resurrection with Howard at my table, where food and love and happiness all commingle.

Soren Kierkegaard said, Christianity happens one person at a time. I like that; it resonates. This theological scale works for me, a kind of kitchen table salvation. I must confess, I feel more balance and surety dining with a friend than with a crowd.

It took me a while to find the resurrection in the reading of the 4000. It didn’t come right away. The food angle didn’t take long. That was obvious. But, even here, it was a bit off. The scale was too large. This doesn’t match the kitchen table scale I trust in resurrection.

Trying to come to grips with the meaning of the feeding of the 4000 I remembered a conversation. One evening I spoke with a high-end chef. Jeff worked his way from a private chef to a head chef to a venue and then to an arena. He explained his path to me with chicken. He said, I used to buy chicken by the pound and then I bought it by the case. Now, I buy chicken by the pallet, he said. Pallets of chicken. The image shocked me.

He went on. He needs enough chicken to feed 100,000 people in one night. There is enormous planning and preparation and skill that goes into feeding so many people. I got a sense that even with all the skill and the sous chefs and the industrial kitchens, even then this must be a daunting task.

For this reason I get it when the disciples balk and say, “where are we going to get enough bread in the desert?” It’s a fair question. Or is it? Jesus has already fed a larger crowd. I have a feeling that when Jesus said, “I have compassion for the crowd” some of the twelve must have thought, “compassion sure, but this crowd, oh, boy.” You see it was one thing to feed the 5000 lost sheep of Israel, but this was a rabble of gentiles, the unwashed and unholy.

It is one thing to have compassion for your people, your tribe. But this was different.

Let’s go back to the shrimp dinner with Howard. This is my image of resurrection. Good food, friendship, truth, hope. One of Howard’s daughters called me and let me talk to him in the hours before he died. I choked out the words, I love you my friend. You did well and you are loved. There was more but that was the gist. I can say that to Howard. I can say that to you. There is always a place for him at my table, a plate, a glass. You and I can make this table for each other.

This is what I conjure when I try to imagine salvation and resurrection. Not something after life; I see it as life here and now. Small moments, where life changes, where there is delight, umami.

That I can see. But I must confess I am like the balking disciples when it comes to a crowd of strangers. Oh, I feel compassion, but I am not sure what to do. I see refugees and migrant farmers and dreamers and children growing up on the south side of Chicago, and I feel compassion, but unlike Jesus, my compassion is not ready to act; I don’t know what to cook.

My kitchen table theology (Christianity happens one person at a time) is not wrong. You live one day at a time, one breath at a time. But there is another resurrection.
Jesus had compassion and he acted. True, what he gave was a meal that would not last but a short-time, just enough time for folks to get home. It was just enough mercy to make it home.

True, no one would blame or think less of me if my vision of salvation was good food and good friends and honesty and love. But there is another resurrection in the gospel. The resurrection is both the kitchen table and the crowd. Easter is a day and it’s every day if your compassion becomes action, acts of simple mercy offered because someone needs to get home. It’s both. Amen.