On Rules to Live By

As seen in the GDP newsletter

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“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt…” 

My friend Tom and I look up at our server. We’re sitting outside at my favorite Turkish restaurant in the Richmond, heat lamps glowing and San Francisco’s omnipresent fog curling down the street. The last bite of baklava sits in the center of a white plate between us.

“I just wanted to ask…” she continues tentatively, gesturing at our nearly empty plate, “by any chance… are either of you from… Minnesota?”

Ope. Yes we are. And if you are too, you knew exactly where I was going with this the second I mentioned the baklava. 

Between family updates and comparing fantasy football rosters, Tom and I had chipped away at our dessert until all that remained was a thin sliver of flaky filo standing resolutely in the center of the plate. And then we put our forks down.

What you out-of-towners might not know is that we Minnesotans abide by a vigorous set of unspoken rules. 

And Minnesotans. Love. Rules.

The game is Duck-Duck-Gray Duck, not Duck-Duck-Goose. All compliments must be immediately deflected. The first offering of food and drink must be politely declined and leaving a party should take no less than 60 minutes, from the initial knee slap and stand to the final conversation through the car window.

But the rule that’s so distinctive a complete stranger could recognize it nearly 2,000 miles away is this: you must never, ever, under any circumstances take the last bite of shared food. 

One doughnut left? Take half.
Half a doughnut left? 
Cut it again. 
Tiny little wedge of doughnut left in the box?
Leave it. 

Why is this a thing? Is there an overzealous unit on sharing in the Minnesota kindergarten curriculum? Are Minnesotans simply too nice to take the last of anything?

The answer—in short—is yes. Or rather, you betcha.

In the early days of the pandemic there was the great Toilet Paper Panic, as people stampeded through stores clearing entire shelves and buying up every last roll. Meanwhile to the north, a familiar pattern had emerged. No matter where you went across Minnesota, there was always one package of toilet paper left on the shelf. Same with paper towels. Cleaning supplies. Canned goods. 

Minnesotans took what they needed. But they always made sure the next person could take one too.

This past January, when ICE agents swept through Minneapolis, that same instinct showed up again.

Throughout an unlawful and violent federal occupation, Minnesotans took care of one another. They shared agent sightings. They stood outside of neighborhood schools and donated to food banks. They did laundry and took animals to the vet and kids to school and shoveled sidewalks and prepared meals and showed up by the tens of thousands to protest in sub-zero temperatures.

They stepped up without question because there’s a larger Minnesotan principle at play here: always look out for your neighbor. 

It can manifest in different ways, from defending your block during a federal occupation and making sure the person after you can buy toilet paper, to leaving the last bite of baklava for your friend. The stakes may vary, but the instinct doesn’t. 

Living in San Francisco has influenced me in a lot of ways. I sometimes wear Vans to work and I’ve caught myself saying “hella” non-ironically. I’m working on accepting compliments, I’ll gladly say yes to a glass of wine at a friend’s apartment, and I leave parties a lot more efficiently. My nonexistent future kid might even get roped into a game of Duck-Duck-Goose, whatever that is. 

But there is one rule I will always live by: if we’re sharing dessert, I will never, ever take the last bite. I take pride in leaving a little on the plate. Although, as a true-blue Minnesotan, I’d prefer you didn’t tell anyone I said that.