I don't take coffee at this hour

Last week, I accompanied the mother of a new Indian student to meet the local adult basic education (ABE) people, so she can join a "Motherspeak" English-language-learning group. The two women helped her fill out the required forms ("You can't get anything for free from the government, you know" one of the women told me with collegial derision.), which mostly wanted name, age, country of origin, ethnicity. Asian?
Afterward, the woman insisted I come to her apartment. I was happy to say yes; meeting new people from far places and witnessing their adaptation is why I teach ESL. I'm always curious to see the apartments they rent, what comes with the place, what they bring with them and what they find necessary to acquire here.
I sat at the table in the kitchen and ate a salty, flavorful snack from a straight-sided stainless bowl with a plastic spoon. Included with the snack--peanuts, various puffed items--were several saltine crackers. I made sure to finish with the flavor of the puffed fried tasties, not the bland saltines. She gave me sweet coffee, instant, lightened; it reminded me of Senegal. It was wonderful. Served in a small glass tumbler without a handle, I was forced to slow down, blow it to cool it, savor it. She herself didn't drink any; "I don't take coffee...at this hour," she confessed.
Our conversation was punctuated by pauses, silences, smiles; I know now that she is 30 years old, a twin, a woodworker. Living in a building populated by others like herself, Indians on work assignment, not permanent but long-term enough to justify bringing wife, children, to experience American winters and Vermont schools.
I should have known she would ask me in; I was ready to say yes when she asked. I wanted to see their place, sure. I also wanted her to be the hostess, to be the hosted. Sometimes the most welcoming thing we can do is to accept another's hospitality, to accept her right to be placeholder, her need to say, "I belong here too. Let me welcome you to the world."

Tomatoes

Today I spent the morning at the Two Rivers Center for Sustainability in Montpelier. Their farm grows four crops (potatoes, tomatoes, onions, carrots) for the Vermont Food Bank. Each week, they send 2000 pounds--that's two thousand, yep--of produce to the food bank. They welcome volunteers to help them harvest, and I have been yearning to do some farmwork. I picked tomatoes from plants in the greenhouse, wiped the dirt off tomatoes that were grown outdoors, and cleaned and bagged onions. The best part of the day was talking with the people who were there. One of the paid workers is a woman who lives just up the road from me, I've walked by her house a hundred times and we'd never met. There were two boys who were reminded me that kids really are great when they are given the chance to be. Zach, who is beginning 7th grade, already knows that he wants to be a farmer and grow his own food, and considers his volunteer time as an internship. Ari, who will be in 10th grade, has traveled to South America where he saw sustainable permaculture farms and cloud forests. At lunch time, these two self-possessed young men got out their insulated lunch boxes and sat with the farmers, eating sandwiches and yogurt. I got into my car to run Very Important Errands In Town. You know, the errands that are more important than harvesting fresh, organic produce for the food bank.