Growing up, food meant love. My mom and my dad made amazing meals during my childhood, and often they would be sure to include a little something special for each of us, like white gravy for me, instead of brown, and getting two different kinds of ice cream so everyone could have their favorite. It shaped my perception of cooking into an act of love. And I bet I'm not alone.
When do families talk and share and spend time together? Usually at the dinner table. At holidays and on our most special occasions, we eat. Family reunions always include food. In times of grief, we comfort one another with food. Food is love.
What does that mean for me and for my loved ones? I plot love for them in the forms of pasta and pies and spices and sauces and sticky desserts. I debate internally over whether to add parsley or dill or cilantro to my salad, because I want it to be just right. And I pore over my cookbook collection, overindulging in culinary fantasies that always end with satisfied bellies and happy smiles. It's a sickness, I know. But I can't help it, because I love you all.
And food is love.
What's your favorite food memory? I would love to hear about it in the comments!
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