I love cooking. I find joy in food, joy in good food, and joy in making that good food happen. There’s a visceral reaction to good food. Eating truly a good tasting, truly satisfying meal shoots straight through everything into the good stuff. It definitely makes me feel better, and I can use it as a shortcut to make others feel better. In my opinion, food is a long lost love language.
My family has an interesting relationship with food, but interesting in a good way (at least to me). On the one hand, sharing a meal is very meaningful. It’s a time of being together, joy and laughter, and of course, food. Feeding someone is a love language to us. On the other hand, folks don’t go hungry around us. We don’t eat without everyone eating. If you’re with us at dinner time, you have a place at the table.
It coincides with a rule that my grandmother had. My father never stated as much, but he enacted it the same and when I got my own home it was a rule for us as well. “The third time you’ve come over, you’re not visiting. You’re home.” Take your shoes off. Don’t wear your hat at the table. If you want a snack, you know where the pantry is. You’re home.
The combination of these two things has led to us having a fairly large “family”. There’s plenty of people in our lives that don’t share our last name but will always have a spot at our table. It’s something I’ve always loved about my family. It’s also given me an urge to share. I will admit that I’ve had a good life. I’ve been fortunate in circumstances, and I’ve been down right (to be frank, ridiculously) lucky for most of my life. And so I get to share my table.
My family has always been wide. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
