The Light Half of the Plate

By Danielle Lattuga, 12-20-07

In this part of the world, the shorter days arrive with winter, and people come in earlier for dinner. They want stew; they want meat, hot drinks, rich pastas, and dessert.  Many of us change our menus accordingly.  Energy levels shift.  People are quieter, moving a bit more slowly, and sometimes, even grumpy.  We shorten our hours and get more sleep.

Of course, the holiday season seems to hold an energy unique to the winter humdrum. During these few weeks, we see people warm up a bit and dig into their reservoirs of kindness, even if some do develop a bit of a frenetic edge demonstrated by the appearance of the “holiday shopper in the headlights face,” in which you see only the whites of their eyes as their gaze darts from rack to rack, shelf to shelf.

But then they come in to the restaurant, and sink into a booth, gift bags of green, and red, blue and white, piled haphazardly around them. They take a big deep breath, with their eyes closed and a goofy little smirk on their face.  They sit there for a few moments, not even removing their coat, gloved hands still hooked through bag handles, and they rest their head on the back of the seat. Then they disentangle themselves, settle in and order a meal.  They savor the fact that they get to stop long enough to nourish themselves and rejuvenate.

Or they come in for holiday parties, and pack 15 around a table, drinking champagne at lunch and participating in any variety of gift exchanges.

“Whose name did you draw from the hat?”

“I can’t wait to see who will open my white elephant gift.”

“This is for you, because you are the best friend anyone could have.”

Inevitably, all of this activity adds to the chaos but still, I feel lifted when I see people being so nice to each other. It’s easy, usually, to end up feeling a little festive yourself.  It’s easier, usually, for people to share their joy and silliness in public. 

But I know there are people who do not feel joy at this time of year.  There are people who not only get the “Winter Blues” but also who just dread the holidays. 

“Table for one, please.”

I often wonder what has brought someone to that place, where their eyes, if you are lucky to meet them, tell you of a loss that has darkened the edges of their memories, stealing color and vibrancy from the times of happiness in their lives and carrying them to the fringe of emotion.  A place where it is harder for them to reach out and definitely harder for them to be reached.  Some of these folks are the most courteous people I’ve met, some just plain mean.  They might not want to be bothered by you, or they might silently hope for you to linger a little longer after delivering their drink, just to talk to them.  But regardless, you get the sense that they wish they could slip into the background and skip this time of year entirely. It’s not so easy to wear your loneliness or your sadness in public.

This is the duality of the season.

There has been many an occasion in which I wish I could just sit down with someone who seems to need the company, and share their turkey club.  I see myself sitting awkwardly, playing with the silverware and slurping on a coke, like a little kid.  And I guess I see myself that way, because what, really, do I know about how this time of year makes this person feel? And what really could I say to them, to lighten their spirit?  Loneliness and grief, those are things that are hard to unravel, and a lot of the time, the power to do so, lies deep in the core of the person who is bound by them. 

So, I do the best I can for them; make sure that they have everything they need and slow down enough for them, so that they have room to speak and eat peacefully and deliberately.  I try not to let all the festive parties inhabiting my other tables take away from my ability to meet the needs of anyone whom I am serving. 

And I guess that’s just it, as my years of waiting tables pass, I realize more and more, that the needs of my customers aren’t purely related to food and drink and “perfect” service.  People define good service differently, but I believe it requires some perception of a person’s emotional landscape and how that gets all tangled up with hunger and social situations. 

The most beautiful and saddest parts of our lives become illuminated by all the melding of traditions, memory and cultural quirkiness in this season.  I’ve tried to figure how to best navigate this in my own life because I often find myself riding a tumultuous wave of this duality, one moment feeling moved by people’s kindness, the next being drowned by their cruelty or desperation.  And of course, being Italian, I cry through it all. (Who wants to be served by a puffy eyed, slobbering girl?). 

I think that in part, that is why I’ve become more and more attached to honoring the solstice.  I often hear people complain about the darkness that accompanies winter, and I myself, battle that gloominess.  But then Winter Solstice comes along, and we’ve gotten the shortest day of the year over with, before we’ve even entered the depths of winter.  It’s the start of a new year for the sun.  The days will already be getting longer before the holidays are over. 

It’s a chance to start over.  Just like every new customer that walks through the door.  It’s another chance at doing your best.  It’s another chance at pulling someone back from the edge of loneliness.  And the thing is, the sun gets brighter and stays around longer with each passing day, so you have a chance to match that vibrancy, a chance to build on your best from the day before.  A chance to grow stronger, so you can carry yourself with more grace, or help carry someone who can’t carry themselves. 

This has helped me make it through the dark days and the heartbreaks that I witness, those that occur at a distance, and those that occur so closely that they send a fine fissure across the surface of my own heart. 

And I know that I can’t tell this to the perfect stranger sitting at my table, who clearly is struggling to find joy, while it leaps and surges at the tables around him.  But I can tread more lightly around him, garnish his soup with an exceptionally beautiful sprig of oregano, and take the time to meet his eye for confirmation that he has everything he needs, in that one moment.  I can listen between his words, for a way in, for some indication of what could lift the weight, just a little.  And if it works out, I will have learned, by the end of his meal, what words will stay with him as he walks out the door. 

“Happy Holidays”

“Happy Winter.”

“May Peace Walk with You.”

“Take Care.”

“I am Listening.”