Here, at iona, we love people with “special diets.” Because the majority of my day revolves around the distribution, cleaning up, and safe storage of food, I think about food and those who consume it constantly. As a guest at iona, if you are low sodium, gluten-free, no-onion, dairy-free, low sugar, light pepper, vegetarian, or pesctarian, we will accommodate you -- graciously. Not stigmatizing, or “othering” people’s dietary needs or choices is an active cornerstone of our hospitality.
What normally happens, as in this evening, is at the beginning of each meal, the menu is announced and the refectory is informed of the following:
“Tonight we will be having pasta bake with mushrooms and red sauce and bowls of salad with an oil and honey mustard sauce – there will be specials for Kath, Kate and Ross, and other specials for Julie, Ian, and James. There is also a special for Amelia. Specials will come out after the main meal.”
At this point, we, the housekeeping staff, bring out the trays of steaming hot food with our oven mitts that are connected like the pair of mittens with a string that your mom made you wear when you were six. After all “non-special” food has been distributed; the folks with special diets descend on the front cart to dish out their distinct, though frequently mono-colored dishes that have been painstakingly created by the kitchen to accommodate our “special” people.
This evening, however, at the front of the refectory, a disagreement emerged between members of the resident staff and guests attempting to lay claim to the special’s “specials.” We have, in fact, had to do a bit of crisis mental health work surrounding the self worth of guests when they arrive every week and confront, perhaps for the first time, perhaps again, from the recesses of their memory, that they are in fact, not special. Or, for those who, with their peanut allergies and lactose intolerance, have endured decades of marginalization and feelings of guilt when having to pick through and pile small mounds of toxic-violent food on their plates to the looks of disdain and annoyance of the kitchen mister-mistress, they have, perhaps, finally “come home” as it were: finally been told they were... “special.”
I walked quickly away from the pacifist outbreak of disagreement over which dietary requirement deserved the better looking dishes. A woman who had two days earlier rubbed me the wrong way by informing me that our method of cleaning via tea towels was unsanitary (I do two loads of sanitary was per day to have starch clean tea towels for each meal, fyi.), was claiming that because she was a vegetarian, she needed a special dish, and was attempting to claim the gluten free option from three other hungry residents. After three attempts to inform her that the non-special option was in fact, already vegetarian, I decided to let the wolves sort it out and flee to the kitchen, acting as if I had something else industrious to be doing, such as fill teapots.
Now don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love vegans, wannabe vegans, veggos, and any variety of the above. In fact, I wish I was special! I want to be special! Why did I not know that I could experiment with being vegan while I was here --
But back to this evening.
I left the kitchen when it appeared that everyone had dispersed and took my seat at the common table. As I forked my first bite of steaming pasta bake and brought it to my mouth, a gangly teenage boy, the same one that I have had to remind on two occasions during the week that he must wear shoes while in the kitchen, tapped me on the shoulder.
“Uhh, excuse me, do you know if the salad dressing have honey in it?”
(I gave him a blank stare of incredulity. This kid is a new vegan, negotiating the world of yeast extracts and international travel. I mentally contemplate the article about vegan-purists to whom honey is considered an animal by-product to be extricated from diet.)
After I double checked that the honey mustard was not in fact vegan friendly, I offered, because I am so hospitable olive oil from Palestine and red wine vinegar. Though this was through clenched teeth and my patience was about ran out, it wasn’t until a few minutes later when he asked if I would get him soy milk to add to his fruit crumble that I responded, “You can get the soy milk yourself! You know where it is….!!!” With the head warden across the table looking at me as if I was crazy…
