Food library.

Consider food in the context of a library. What if you could enter a vast, stately, and historic building that, when you entered, wafted the rhythmic aroma of food, rather than paper and laminated cardboard. Sounds like a restaurant? No, step away from the familiar of what the aroma triggers. Push into the context of rows and rows, stacks and stacks of neatly, catalogued food. It’s held in time at the perfect temperature, humidity control, ventilation, and light that permits it to hold steady at perfection.

Now, in the context of a library’s purpose, food would be a strange appropriation for lending and borrowing. Food’s inborn purpose is to be ingested once, never to be shared again. But what if, with every “check-out” removed from the food library, a replacement of the exact item but with a bit of the character infused by the person who previous pulled it from the stacks became its replacement. Broccoli casserole previously checked out by a mother of five children on a Friday night is replaced by the same broccoli casserole recipe but with a slight tinge of Peruvian spices from her family’s heritage. The next person who checks out that broccoli casserole receives much more than the “new” basic broccoli casserole (aka. a newly purchased book). But much like the worn pages of books on a library shelf, the food carries the story of the previous borrower (and possibly a multitude of other borrowers of the same book) through global influences, historic methods of cooking, and familial stories. It sounds impossible and likely not very appetizing, but the concept is worth considering.

Make sustainable, basic needs available through knowledge that grows character and value every time its “checked-out.” A lending library of basic needs met at a public access building that’s enriched by the people, young and old, rich and poor, and male and female who’s presence creates a palace. A “basic needs palace” for the people.