It all started with a hamburger.The best kind of burger. Cooked over a grill, outside, amid friends.

Juicy. Cooked to perfection. Warm.

We were at a Boise State University football game. Let me make it clear; I am not a Bronco fan. I attended the University of Idaho, and although the two schools are no longer rivals, I cannot bring myself to don blue and orange. As much as it pains me to say it, however, Boise State’s fans do something right.

They tailgate.

Since I’m married to a rabid BSU fan, I occasionally take in a game. The man in the spot next to ours, a Boise businessman named John Dowdle, always brings food. My kids are obsessed with his food, and he always shares. Not just with us but with strangers walking by and friends down the row.

During one October game, I thanked John for always serving my family.

He told me he loved feeding people and never minds bringing extra. That warmed my heart. My family and I share this philosophy. There’s always room for one more. So when I found a kindred spirit, I got to thinking.

Why don’t we do more? Especially those of us in agriculture? If we can, shouldn’t we all share the food we raise for a living? If we are able, wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all shared more meals together?

Entertaining and feeding people is a lost art. Sure, there are gatherings here and there, but all too often, I find people try so hard to please the food critics, they lose sight of what’s really important. It’s not about the food. It’s about the people you’re with. The conversation. The bond of a shared experience.

It reminded me of a collection of short stories by author Shawn Vestal, Godforsaken Idaho.

In his essay, “The First Several Hundred Years Following my Death,” Vestal’s character Rex describes what heaven is like as he greets his family members when they arrive. The cafeteria in heaven has a very specific menu.

“Your mother’s Sunday dinner. A corn dog from the county fair. You eat from your own life only. You order from memory, as best you can. Your birthday cake, your wedding cake, your graduation barbecue.

You give the cafeteria workers some coordinate, some connection – and out comes the tray. Your grandmother’s pot roast. The double cheeseburger from the Lincoln Inn. If you try to take a bite of someone else’s food, it vanishes as your teeth descend.”

It’s the meals that matter. Those times when our food is forever interwoven in the memory are reasons why we all work so hard to grow high-quality products. The Thanksgiving feast. Dinner with friends. Grandma’s sacred soup recipe. But it’s not the actual food we crave, not the nutrients. It’s the way it makes us feel. Connected. Alive. Loved.

As our tailgate neighbor John and I conversed, he told me he started bringing extra food about a decade ago. The goal was to share a piece of himself, through the food, with the people who walked by and surrounded his spot in the stadium parking lot.

“Food is an instant bridge to friendship,” Dowdle said. “You let someone know they’re included. They think, ‘He took the time to think of me.’”

That’s important. And really, what does a hamburger cost?

As the holiday season grew near, I kept thinking about what my friend John had said.

“How much does that hamburger really cost?”

For the rancher who raised it, it shows a job well done. But for the person who cooks it? In the long run, it costs nothing. Nothing when you can share it. It’s an investment in humanity and human kindness. It’s pennies when you think of the warmth and compassion that this sandwich brings.

I had been worrying all autumn how to celebrate Christmas. I have no desire to buy into the commercialized spectacle it can become. I just wanted to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas. I wanted the peace, not the performance.

I went back to Vestal’s book and the description of heaven.

“There is no peace here. All the trappings of peace, yes, all the silence and emptiness, but those are just shells. If you want peace, you have to find it in the life you left behind…Now that it’s gone. Your life is the only thing you have left.”

Since reading those words, I have made a greater effort to find peace in my everyday life. For Christmas this year, we are not going to worry about the presents; we’re going to attempt at least, to focus on the presence.

I want that peace that comes from the comfort of old friends and close family. I want my family to remember the smell of the corned beef and cabbage I fix for at least one holiday meal. I want them to feel the crisp Idaho air on their cheeks in the morning. I want them to experience the true gift of Christmas.

I want them to have memories. I want them to have a piece of me that I can only give by being present and not preoccupied. And I want them to have a good burger. PD

• Karma Metzler Fitzgerald

• Dairywoman
• Shoshone, Idaho