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BREAKING BREAD
Essays from New England on Food, Hunger, and Family Editors: Deborah Joy Corey & Debra Spark Nearly 70 renowned New England writers gather round the table to talk food and how it sustains us—mind, body, and soul. A collection of essays by top literary talents and food writers, Breaking Bread celebrates local foods, family, and community, while exploring how what’s on our plates engages with what’s off: grief, pleasure, love, ethics, race, and class. Proceeds from this collection of essays will benefit Blue Angel. |
PRESS
AUDIO EXCERPTS
Recipe Box by Lee Smith
Father Forgive Me by Hal Crowther
Don't Flip the Ployes by Kevin St. Jarre
For the Love of Grits by Alice Gorman
Wicked Good Scallops by Nancy Harmon Jenkins
Connections by Michele Levesque
Memorable Meals by Carl Little
Taj by Alana Dao
I Tell Henry The Plate is Red by Annaliese Jakimides
PREFACE by Deborah Joy Corey
A few years ago, I was hearing more about hunger increasing in Maine, and so I began to do some research, thinking that I would write an essay. I visited nearby food pantries and shelters. One shelter director said that her pantry rarely receives fresh vegetables or jams and jellies or brand-name peanut butter. She also told me that many people she serves do not have happy food memories. Some of the children have never
experienced home cooking. Their appetites are driven by growling bellies, not the smell of a roasting chicken, or a simmering stew, or chocolate chip cookies baking when they arrive home from school.
I also talked to local church and community leaders, who told me that members of my own village often did not have enough food. All of them, with the exception of a few who are elderly or chronically ill, have jobs
and work hard. Upon learning this, what had started as a research mission became a mandate to help.
In February of 2019, I asked Paul and Dixie Gray, leaders at the church that I attend, if I could use an empty space on church property to build a garden. The space had once been a playground for a daycare, and that
seemed to ordain it for growing vegetables for local families. The Grays were immediately supportive and have remained so.
March of 2019 was a cold month. On the first day, my beloved niece Karen died suddenly of an aneurysm. She had the most beautiful blue eyes. She was a caring mother, experienced gardener, and a wonderful cook.
Each morning when I woke, the frost had made beautiful and intricate angel wings on my bedroom window. For many mornings after her death, I studied the frozen angel wings, the rising sun shining through them and
making them gleam as they melted away. One night, I dreamt of an angel with mighty blue wings the color of Karen’s eyes.
This dream sustained me while forming Blue Angel. I began to talk to local farms to see if they might help provide fresh produce for families. Amanda Provencher of King Hill Farm was the first on board, and others followed.
Later, I asked my community to donate from their home gardens, and boy, have they delivered! Others have given fi nancially, some water and weed the church garden, some bake bread and cakes and cookies. Village
chefs make soup and stews, and the local markets and restaurants give—all leaving their donations on my porch. By the grace of those blue wings, it continues.
Since the spring of 2019, Blue Angel has been making weekly deliveries of healthy food to nearby homes. From porch to porch, it goes. Often, we have extras that we give to local daycares and food pantries. At a shelter in
Orland, Maine, we have set up a free summer vegetable stand. Some of the families that we help now plant their own gardens and give back to Blue Angel. Our youngest gardener is seven years old. Her name is Fiona.
The often-used phrase food insecure seems to soften the crisis of hunger that I have witnessed. Ravenous. Starving. I could eat a horse and chase the rider—these are the things that I say at the fi rst twinge of hunger. I never say, “I feel a little food insecure.” The low impact of this language is dangerous. It provides comfort to the wrong people, allowing the fortunate to maintain an illusion that hunger in our community is a mere inconvenience, rather than an immediate crisis.
The fact that many do not have fond food memories has stayed with me, making me examine my own food memories and wonder about those of others. What if we were to share our memories with one another, the
good and the bad? What if we did something to start a broader conversation? Could sharing our stories be the catalyst to change, as it so often is? And, so, I asked my writing community to take the lead by submitting essays about their food memories.
The generous response was so overwhelming that I soon knew I needed a co-editor. I partnered with an old friend, Debra Spark. Debra and I met many years ago when we were both young writers living in Boston. I am
so grateful to her and to all the writers who have shared their work. By offering their stories regarding their food heritage, they are breaking bread through story, and they are supporting Blue Angel’s mission. From the bottom of my heart, I thank them.
experienced home cooking. Their appetites are driven by growling bellies, not the smell of a roasting chicken, or a simmering stew, or chocolate chip cookies baking when they arrive home from school.
I also talked to local church and community leaders, who told me that members of my own village often did not have enough food. All of them, with the exception of a few who are elderly or chronically ill, have jobs
and work hard. Upon learning this, what had started as a research mission became a mandate to help.
In February of 2019, I asked Paul and Dixie Gray, leaders at the church that I attend, if I could use an empty space on church property to build a garden. The space had once been a playground for a daycare, and that
seemed to ordain it for growing vegetables for local families. The Grays were immediately supportive and have remained so.
March of 2019 was a cold month. On the first day, my beloved niece Karen died suddenly of an aneurysm. She had the most beautiful blue eyes. She was a caring mother, experienced gardener, and a wonderful cook.
Each morning when I woke, the frost had made beautiful and intricate angel wings on my bedroom window. For many mornings after her death, I studied the frozen angel wings, the rising sun shining through them and
making them gleam as they melted away. One night, I dreamt of an angel with mighty blue wings the color of Karen’s eyes.
This dream sustained me while forming Blue Angel. I began to talk to local farms to see if they might help provide fresh produce for families. Amanda Provencher of King Hill Farm was the first on board, and others followed.
Later, I asked my community to donate from their home gardens, and boy, have they delivered! Others have given fi nancially, some water and weed the church garden, some bake bread and cakes and cookies. Village
chefs make soup and stews, and the local markets and restaurants give—all leaving their donations on my porch. By the grace of those blue wings, it continues.
Since the spring of 2019, Blue Angel has been making weekly deliveries of healthy food to nearby homes. From porch to porch, it goes. Often, we have extras that we give to local daycares and food pantries. At a shelter in
Orland, Maine, we have set up a free summer vegetable stand. Some of the families that we help now plant their own gardens and give back to Blue Angel. Our youngest gardener is seven years old. Her name is Fiona.
The often-used phrase food insecure seems to soften the crisis of hunger that I have witnessed. Ravenous. Starving. I could eat a horse and chase the rider—these are the things that I say at the fi rst twinge of hunger. I never say, “I feel a little food insecure.” The low impact of this language is dangerous. It provides comfort to the wrong people, allowing the fortunate to maintain an illusion that hunger in our community is a mere inconvenience, rather than an immediate crisis.
The fact that many do not have fond food memories has stayed with me, making me examine my own food memories and wonder about those of others. What if we were to share our memories with one another, the
good and the bad? What if we did something to start a broader conversation? Could sharing our stories be the catalyst to change, as it so often is? And, so, I asked my writing community to take the lead by submitting essays about their food memories.
The generous response was so overwhelming that I soon knew I needed a co-editor. I partnered with an old friend, Debra Spark. Debra and I met many years ago when we were both young writers living in Boston. I am
so grateful to her and to all the writers who have shared their work. By offering their stories regarding their food heritage, they are breaking bread through story, and they are supporting Blue Angel’s mission. From the bottom of my heart, I thank them.