Summer food and liturgy

Seasonal food matters in a place like Minnesota that has definite seasons. At the local coop food is labeled by its origin so we know which produce came from a place we could, perhaps, bike to and which requires a truck or a plane to reach us.   Seasonal food also matters for some things that require a truck.  Cherries don't grow in Rice County, but I bought some recently that had been brought in from Wenatchee, Washington and they were nearly as good as the ones I've eaten in view of the trees along the Columbia River valley.  Last night we had peaches that my friend brought back from Colorado with her.  Delicious with ginger pound cake and the last scoops of vanilla ice cream from Izzies.  Corn on the cob from a farm near Northfield.  Walleye that probably came from Canada but eaten with the illusion that it might have been caught in a Minnesota lake.  A small handful of raspberries from the bushes in my front yard.  Anticipating the tomatoes that are forming on a plant at the end of the driveway, to be eaten with basil exploding among the out of control morning glories.

Even without fair-food on a stick, all these mouthfuls of delight signal summer in the midwest.  Their aroma and taste and textures recall previous meals in specific places.  (Ah the peaches offered in Seattle's Pike Place market.  Sweet corn rushed from the farm to our kitchen in Ames.)   They also link us to the cycles of the seasons which return again and again.  Each summer's food is distinct.  Each juicy mouthful is its own pleasure.

In this the tomato (to select one fruit) is oddly like the Christian liturgy which is always specific and local and at the same time follows a cycle that guides its participants through the year in a pattern of predictable, yet potentially surprising, change.