I am a discerning eater. That’s what I call myself. Others call me picky.

Nancy and I were at a retreat house, disconnecting from technology, from schedules, from other responsibilities. Walking into the library on the first night was a gift. There were books that I knew but hadn’t read. There were books unknown to me by authors I know well. I will, I thought, enjoy this.

Then someone talked about the meals, prepared and served at noon each day to the twelve of us by a professional chef. Others were delighted. I was scared.

I knew that I was going to be confronted by meals of wonderful food, fixed perfectly, inconsistent with my ‘values’ as a discerning eater. I knew he’d fix stuff that I don’t like.

“I’ll bet,” I thought, “he’ll fix salmon.”

I don’t eat fish. I don’t really like fish. The smell, the texture, the taste, the bones. I don’t like fish.

Nancy wasn’t concerned. She has cooked around my fears for years. It has meant that she hasn’t eaten all she would like to eat. She was, I think, looking forward to whatever would be fixed.

For our first meal together, we sat the long table, set with two forks and two spoons. The salad was perfect. The plates were carried in. As Nancy was served first, across the table from me, I recognized the salmon.

There was wild rice, corn, and salmon.

Not just any salmon, mind you. It was chipotle/apricot glazed salmon.

It was perfect.

I was thinking, as I was looking forward to the meal, about how many times Jesus uses an image of a feast to describe time with him. It would be possible to say, “I don’t like what he is serving” and to stay away.

And miss the feast.