This time of year, I crave slow food — it’s one of my favorite things about wintertime. Food that cooks for hours in the oven, in a crock pot or on a stove top and fills the whole house with a wonderful aroma. Food made from a recipe hand written on a tattered index card or in a black and white essay book, a recipe with pencilled additions made in the margins of a cookbook sold by a small town Home Ec class or civic organization. Food made from a recipe handed down for generations — from someone’s mother, someone’s aunt, someone’s grandfather. Food that might be referred to as a casserole — or if you live in the upper Midwest, a hot dish. Food with ingredients that take time to chop, mince or dice. Food of any ethnic origin, as long as it comes with gravy or a sauce and is designed to be sopped up with a piece of homemade, crusty bread. Food that doesn’t appear quickly. Food that doesn’t come in a little cardboard box or in a paper wrapper. Just like the song says, I need slow food to feed my soul.