Food is Renewal: Alex Titus

Welcome to the Meaning of Food, a yearlong exploration of food’s place in our lives and communities. Every meal tells a story – food connects us to our culture, our memories, our sense of identity. These stories shape who we are—and they can shape our understanding of hunger. This month, we are highlighting stories about renewal. Northwest Harvest Internal Communications Manager Alex Titus shares what “Food is Renewal” means to them through a poem and short story. More stories from our community can be found here.

Cycles of Plenty

– by Alex Titus

I find it always
so difficult to explain
that In Louisiana,
Seasons breathe-
and exhale feasts

Spring, the promise for Summer:
stewed leaves, ham-kissed,
a backyard bounty-
spillway mud, coaxing crawfish,
and a father’s hand.

Fall, a hush toward Winter:
Mississippi woods, where shots ring out,
a hunt (ritual)-
the bayou’s silver net, their dances of fish,
a prelude to quiet lines.

A mountain of oyster shells, built by hands (yours- mine), then crushed,
directly on beds
where my grandmother’s flowers grew.

Each, a loss, then return
the empty woods, the silent spillway, the waiting – – – for
a taste of renewal, a promise kept.

That’s the funny thing about it-
food-
It’s not sustenance,
but time itself.

You can listen to Alex read his poem here.

The scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine always whispered: renewal. In Louisiana, you didn’t just eat; you participated in the rhythm of the seasons, a dance of give and take with the land. Food wasn’t just sustenance; it was a promise, a cycle of loss and return, a tangible expression of time itself.

Late spring and summer painted our backyard in a vibrant green, a canvas of sprawling leaves that my cousins and I would gather. These weren’t just weeds; they were the promise of a hearty stew, simmered with the smoky remnants of a ham bone, a taste of comfort that filled our bellies and warmed our souls. It was a simple magic, transforming the ordinary into something nourishing, something renewed.

Spring’s arrival meant a pilgrimage to the spillway with my dad, the muddy banks teeming with life. We’d crouch low, patiently coaxing crawfish from their hidden burrows, the thrill of the catch a shared secret between father and child. The rusty traps, the bubbling pots, the spicy aroma of a crawfish boil – it was a ritual of rebirth, a celebration of the land’s generosity.

Fall brought the somber beauty of the Mississippi woods, the distant echo of gunshots a familiar soundtrack. My grandfather, uncles, and dad, figures etched in the landscape, ventured into the wild, returning with the bounty of the hunt. It was a solemn act, a respect for the animal, a recognition of the cycle of life and death, a necessary sacrifice that would sustain us through the winter.

The bayou’s edge was our playground in the fall, the cast net a silver arc against the setting sun. We’d haul in shimmering schools of baitfish, their frantic energy a prelude to the quiet patience of catfishing and trout lines. And then, there were the oysters.

The garage, a haven of weathered tools and salty air, became our oyster shucking station. My grandfather, his hands gnarled and strong, led the charge. The rhythmic clink of shells, the sharp flash of the knife, the briny sweetness of an oyster slipped into our mouths – every tenth one, a reward for our labor. The iridescent mountain of shells grew taller than me, a testament to our collective effort. But the cycle didn’t end there. Those shells, crushed and scattered, became the foundation for my grandmother’s garden, nourishing the flowers she loved, a tangible representation of renewal.

There was a bittersweetness to it all. The anticipation of hunting season, the eagerness for crawfish to emerge, the long wait for the 6 weeks of king cake season. It was the sadness of the empty woods after the hunt, the quiet spillway after crawfish season, the last slice of cake eaten on Mardi gras day. But the loss was always tempered by the knowledge that the cycle would turn, that the bounty would return, renewed, just for us.

Food wasn’t just about filling our stomachs; it was about filling our souls with the rhythm of life, the understanding that everything has its season, a time for giving and a time for receiving. It was a lesson etched in the taste of stewed greens, the sting of crawfish spice, the salty tang of oysters, and the scent of damp, fertile earth. It was a Louisiana renewal, a taste of the land’s enduring promise.