Food

My husband thinks food is the answer. I mean, for everything. Got a stomach ache? Eat. Got a headache? Eat. Feel sad? Eat. Feel happy? Eat. He and I often go head to head on the subject because I think that he probably grew up using food as gratification, as consolation, as reward. I think he got mixed signals from his mother, who was constantly putting him on diets yet offering him unwanted food from her plate. We had a horrific storm last summer. Exciting. But horrific. Part of our roof blew off, an entire tree came blowing across the highway and landed in our yard — thankfully missing our front window. A neighbor’s trampoline lifted skyward and wrapped itself around a power pole. When it was finished, I found myself wanting food. Something grounding, something to remind me that this is the here and now, that we are lucky that only our property sustained damage and not us, personally. I was pleased that we had switched to a gas stove a couple of years ago and that now, with no electricity, I could cook. We had a fantastic spaghetti dinner with an amazing homemade marinara. Sometimes food IS the answer.