In this house we are very serious about food. Drive three hours for the perfect burger/pad prik king/chile relleno/saag paneer/BBQ serious about food. We plan our vacations around the restaurants we want to visit. We celebrate with food, grieve with food, even kitchen dance with food.
It is a problem. I know this about myself. I have tried to be high minded about the obsession. Food is a language, I say. Eating a foreign cuisine is the quickest way to immerse yourself into another culture. Food, I proclaim, is is a way to taste the world's history, it is a story you can eat!
All of which may be accurate.
But the honest to goodness truth is simply that I really, really like the taste of bacon. And honey. And Brussels sprouts. And noodles. And bread. And bread. And did I mention, bread?
One time I cried right in the middle of the produce section because a sample of vegetable soup tasted just THAT good. I would like to completely blame the postpartum depression I was going through at the time....but let's just be honest here. I once stopped speaking to Riley for two whole minutes because he ate my last bite of an exquisitely made BLT. That last, perfect bacon and tomato bite I had been saving until the very end. He doesn't touch my food anymore. And then of course, there was the time I dedicated about 3oo words to my desire for basket full of sausage and cheese.
Yesterday, I took Margaret to Costco for a slice of pizza. On our way out to the car, with her face full of sauce and cheese, she turned to me,
"That pizza made me smile! I am so happy. I love pizza more than anything in the ever whole world."
I smiled and kissed her messy little face, I knew exactly how she felt.