Thanksgiving approaches – a time to celebrate harvest, a bounty of Earth, a gift of food. I visit blogs of my virtual friends who prepare their happy American homes for this traditional holiday, and I look at the crafts made with food. It doesn’t sit well with me. I didn’t experience hunger, but my father and my husband’s parents were children of WWII (ironically, on the opposite sides). They knew evacuation, being torn from their homes, not knowing where the next meal comes from, and they knew hunger. When I was young, I read a book that was based on a diary of a 10 year old girl Tanya who happened to be in Leningrad (now St Petersburg) when fascists blocked all the roads into the city and bombed food storage facilities in the city. The siege lasted for more than a year, and in the meantime almost a million civillians died of hunger. She described in her diary the situation in the city, burning furniture and books for warmth and slow death of everyone in her family. The last one to die was her mom. Tanya was one of the children air-lifted out, but her body was too far gone, and she didn’t survive. The sad part is that even today every minute someone in the world dies of hunger while we are happily playing in our sensory bins and making rainbows out of fruit loops. I am not saying that I can solve the world hunger, but at least I can teach my daughter that food is precious, and not to be used in crafts. Maybe she will not be as advanced in her fine motor skills and not as creative, but it’s OK with me. I just want her to know that food is a terrible thing to waste.