Blood Orange

When I lived in Italy I traveled frequently. My backpack, on a typical traveling weekend, held not only my clothing, passport, and toiletries, but also wedges of salty, hard cheeses, hunks of freshly baked bread, and numerous round, red blood oranges.

When I lived in Italy I traveled frequently. My backpack, on a typical traveling weekend, held not only my clothing, passport, and toiletries, but also wedges of salty, hard cheeses, hunks of freshly baked bread, and numerous round, red blood oranges.

We ate these simple meals on stifling trains, sitting in the open air atop old stone walls where we breathed in the countryside, beside big bodies of water and old boats, on benches in the piazzas of ancient cities. We ate these meals together, slowly, grateful for the sustenance, for the opportunity to travel, for friends with whom to share the experiences. 

I learned in Italy that mealtime is sacred, a time for sharing the day, sharing food, and sharing of ourselves. We lingered over our food in conversation and laughter, whether we sat down to plates of delicious pasta, succulent meats, and fresh vegetables, or sat on the ground for a meal of cheese and half of a blood orange. 

Together we broke bread, taking pieces and chewing slowly. Splitting an orange, we let the blood red juice run down our hands and arms and drip from our elbows. We ate, in true communion, together. We found that mealtime, which so often at home felt rushed and mundane and an inconvenient chore, could be spiritual. We found that God really does show up at the table, in the bread and in the blood of a ripe, red orange.