Friendship and Flavor

There it was, a neat white invitation tacked to our cabin door. It was the final weekend the camp staff would be spending together at Camp Cherokee, and for the past two weeks as we served during family camp, us girls had taken the time to do a nice thing or two for the guys. And then this invitation.

A Sabbath morning breakfast down on the lake sounded delightful, but we were wary. Young men will be young men, won't they?--playful, mischievous, pranksters. We girls laughed amongst ourselves, figuring that we would encounter a bucket of granola and a gallon of soymilk--and then perhaps be tossed in the lake.

As we, herd-like, made our way down to the dock, we were directed to Adirondack chairs, spaced out evenly behind benches with flowers. The first gentleman to come out of the boathouse-turned-kitchen was Teddy, guitar in hand, who regaled us with quiet playing. And then came the menus, each one prinited with one of our names: Blueberry pancakes, regular pancakes, toast with honey, scrambled eggs, scrambled tofu, granola, fruit smoothies, fruit salad, mixed nuts... and the list went on. Could they actually do all this?

Having grown up with an abundance of vegetables and fruits from our garden and nearby orchards, I am used to simple, wholesome, delicious food. But this spread went beyond that. It was coupled with service and humility in the way that each of us was served, complete with flowers on our trays and a special note. It was an emblem of genuine caring and friendship--we had worked together all summer and had grown close, and they were honoring us. It was home-cooked and fresh food, lovingly prepared at early hours of the morning. It was combined with music, it was a Sabbath feast.

I still have the menu and the note with my name on them, tucked into the front of my little hymnal. I can yet see my gentlemen friends, decked out in homemade aprons and baking caps, smirks on their faces, bringing out trays...and the food? I can still taste it.