Monday, August 5, 2013
Sifting through and boxing up my stuff to move left me feeling displaced this weekend. And digging through the past made me feel more than a little sad. Then on the way to work this morning the radio show DJ's were talking about food=love. Then some guy got on and told about his wife making him fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy for Sunday supper, and how good that made him feel. Then I started crying. It really hit me. I now know why I equate food with love. In my childhood on Sunday's after church my grandmother and aunts would be in the kitchen frying chicken and making homemade rolls and icing the red velvet cake. The older girls would be in there with them washing dishes and peeling potatoes. The younger girls would be on the screened in porch shelling peas or snapping beans and chucking corn. Then the grown-ups would squeeze around the dining room table and the kids at various tables around the house to have a meal with each other. The food fed our bodies, but the companionship fed our need to be loved and to be part of a bigger whole. It gave us a place to belong. If it sounds a little Norman Rockwellish, it's because it kind of was. When I think of foods like that, it is tied to my feelings of belonging. Sad thing is that the grown-ups didn't know that heart disease begins in childhood and the foods we were eating could exaserbate it. They thought they were feeding us a balanced meal. They also didn't know that all that second hand smoke would harm us well into our future.