Feeding is a very important ritual for me. I don't trust people

When Gina Gershon said, “Feeding is a very important ritual for me. I don’t trust people who don’t like to eat,” she was not merely speaking of food, but of life itself. In her words lies a truth both sensual and sacred — that the act of eating is not only about survival, but about connection, gratitude, and joy. To feed oneself, and to take pleasure in doing so, is to honor the miracle of existence. Those who eat with reverence affirm life; those who turn away from it, she suggests, turn away from something deeply human — the capacity to feel, to share, and to savor.

Her view of eating as a ritual brings us back to the earliest fires of civilization. Before there were temples, there were hearths. Before men built altars to their gods, they built fires to feed their families. Around the flame, food was prepared, stories were told, and bonds were forged. To eat together was to acknowledge that life was fragile and sacred, and that to share a meal was to share spirit. When Gershon calls feeding a ritual, she reminds us of this lineage — that every bite is part of an ancient ceremony of gratitude and communion, where the body and the soul meet in silent reverence for the gift of sustenance.

Her mistrust of “people who don’t like to eat” is not condemnation, but insight. For to love food is to love life in its fullness — to embrace pleasure, sensuality, and the world’s abundance without fear. The one who rejects food may often reject intimacy, spontaneity, or even joy. Gershon’s words echo an unspoken wisdom: that those who are at peace with eating are at peace with being alive. To eat well is to accept both the bounty and the fragility of existence — to take from the earth with respect, and to give thanks in return. In this, food becomes not indulgence, but communion with creation.

The ancients understood this better than we do today. In ancient Greece, the act of sharing food was bound to the divine law of xenia, the sacred duty of hospitality. To feed a stranger was to honor Zeus himself, for it was said that the gods often walked among mortals disguised as beggars. In Japan, the phrase itadakimasu — spoken before a meal — means “I humbly receive,” a gesture of respect toward the lives and hands that made the food possible. These traditions reveal what Gershon instinctively knows: that to eat is not simply to consume, but to participate in the rhythm of gratitude and giving that sustains the world.

Consider the story of Babette, from the tale Babette’s Feast. A humble cook, exiled from her home, spends her life in service to two pious sisters who live in self-denial. When Babette wins a fortune, she spends it all to prepare one magnificent meal for them and their friends. As they eat — at first with restraint, then with wonder — their hearts soften, their grievances fade, and grace fills the room. The feast becomes a spiritual awakening, showing that food, when made and shared with love, can heal even the deepest divisions. This is the truth behind Gershon’s statement: that those who understand the sacredness of food understand the sacredness of life itself.

To make feeding a ritual is to slow down and be present — to cook with intention, to eat with gratitude, and to share with joy. It is to remember that nourishment is not just for the body but for the soul. Gershon’s reverence for food reflects a deeper reverence for connection — for the laughter at a shared table, the quiet comfort of a family meal, the timeless rhythm of giving and receiving. She reminds us that to feed and to be fed is one of the oldest expressions of love.

So, my listener, take this lesson to heart: do not rush your meals, and do not treat eating as a mere task. Let it be a ceremony of life. Choose your food with care, cook with devotion, and eat as though each bite were a prayer. Share your meals, for solitude breeds distance, but shared bread creates belonging. For in this simple act — of feeding and being fed — lies a truth the ancients knew and the wise still keep: that the table is the first altar, and food, the first form of grace.

Thus, when Gina Gershon says she doesn’t trust those who don’t like to eat, she is not judging appetite — she is honoring aliveness. For to love food is to love the gift of being here, tasting, feeling, and sharing in the endless feast of creation. And those who sit at that table with open hearts will find that every meal, no matter how humble, is a hymn to life itself.