A Pig of Conscience
I have a new sous chef, and he's not what you'd expect. He's small, ceramic, and sits on my kitchen counter. I bought him on a whim, thinking he was just a cute piece of décor. Little did I know, this tiny swine would become my unexpected, and frankly, very judgmental, life coach on the art of sharing. My pig, whom I've named Hamlet, has a simple yet profound purpose: to remind me not to be a pig myself.
The need for Hamlet became clear one Sunday afternoon. I had just baked a batch of my famous tahini cookies—they're like peanut butter cookies for adults. They came out of the oven, golden and fragrant, and I was overcome with a primal urge. I ate one. Then another. Before I knew it, I was well on my way to eating the entire tray. That's when I placed Hamlet on the counter. He sits there, with his little painted grin, his beady eyes seeming to say, "To eat or not to eat, that is the question."
“To eat or not to eat, that is the question”
Lesson One: Share the Goods
The first lesson Hamlet taught me was about the illusion of scarcity. When we're alone with something delicious, our brains often trick us into believing that this is our one and only chance to enjoy it. Hamlet, however, reminds me that food is more than just fuel or a solitary treat; it's a medium for connection. His presence is a gentle nudge to think, "Who can I share this with?" The shift was immediate. The next time I baked cookies, I put a few on a plate for myself and saved the rest to share with my family. Their gratitude felt far more satisfying than the quick, solitary pleasure of eating the whole batch myself.
We all have that one food we love. For me, it's tortilla chips as nachos or with a favourite dip. When I buy a bag, my first instinct is to hide it. But then I see Hamlet, and I'm reminded that keeping good things to yourself is a recipe for isolation. The chips taste better when you're joking with a friend about the illusion that Old El Paso is Mexican. As Hamlet reminds me, "I ham what I ham."
“I ham what I ham”
Lesson Two: Don't Be a Sloppy Pig
Hamlet’s second, and more direct, lesson is about preventing food waste. In the past, I would get so excited about cooking or baking that I'd make far more than I could ever eat. A simple dinner would turn into a feast for five, and by the end of the week, I'd find myself throwing away wilted vegetables or half-eaten leftovers. It was like I was a sloppy pig, making a mess and not finishing what was on my plate.
Hamlet's disapproving stare has taught me to be more intentional with my groceries and meal prep. Now, before I even start cooking, I pause to consider: how much food do I actually need? I’ve learned to plan meals more thoughtfully, use a shopping list to avoid impulse buys, and get creative with leftovers. This shift in mindset has not only saved me money but also helps the environment. It’s a simple change, but it's amazing how much more responsible I feel when I'm not tossing perfectly good food in the trash. When I mess up and put something in the trash, Hamlet scolds, “There's something rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark”
The Most Important Lesson: The Joy of Giving
The most important lesson from Hamlet is about the simple joy of giving. The act of preparing or sharing food for someone else changes its value. A shared meal is a ritual, an act of love. When you invite friends over for dinner, you’re not just providing a meal; you’re offering your time, your space, and your generosity. This is a far more nourishing act than any food could ever be on its own.
I experienced a moment of this generosity in a truly profound way last winter. I was cleaning out my pantry, a task prompted by a particularly enthusiastic Hamlet glare. I found a surprising number of canned goods and other non-perishables. I packed a box and drove it to the local food bank. The volunteer who greeted me said they were low on canned vegetables that week. As I handed over the box, I felt a wave of satisfaction that went far beyond the simple act of decluttering. It was about giving it a new purpose, a new home where it would nourish someone who needed it.
So, while my kitchen might have fancy gadgets, it also has something better: a small, ceramic pig that silently, but effectively, calls me out on my greed and sloppiness. He reminds me that the best food is always shared food, and that to eat or not to eat is the question. He’s my little oink of conscience, and I wouldn’t trade him for all the truffle-hunting pigs in the world. He really helps me "bring home the bacon" when it comes to being a good person and staying funny. If you can’t laugh at yourself, then how will anyone laugh? As Hamlet reminds me, I "ham what I ham."
“If can’t laugh at yourself, then how will anyone laugh?”
