food.

Last night I followed Mark into his garden with bare feet. We picked enormous tomatoes and handfuls of fresh basil and he used them for dinner. It seemed divine. I ate to absolute capacity.

I don't like to cook, in and of itself, but I love feeding other people.

Preparing food for yourself simply doesn't seem worth it to me. I lost 7 lbs. during the 2 weeks that my parents were gone on vacation. It didn't even occur to me that I should eat.

Conversely, I have been in close relationships with people who intrinsically love food, and have gained as much as 20 lbs. over time. (Maybe it's due to the better judgment of my sub-conscious that I've typically crushed on fairly skinny guys.)

Cooking a meal for someone you care about demonstrates profound love with exquisite simplicity. Especially if it's on a regular basis. My mom has 2 meals for me packed and ready to go by 5:50 every morning. When I arrive back at home by 9 or 10 p.m. there is almost always something simmering on the stove top. I cannot conceive of a way that she could better demonstrate her love. To prepare a meal for someone means that you've thoughtfully considered them. You've expressed concern that they may be hungry and you've taken their preferences into account. Then you spend time, effort, and creativity in order to serve their needs. And you make yourself vulnerable. All of your work could be rejected at first bite.

I could never be a vegetarian, vegan, or even a picky eater, because it would mean turning away someone's else's effort and generosity.

When I was in charge of cooking, I became a health food freak. I eliminated all food items containing corn syrup and started buying organic. Sugar was substituted with agave nectar and I gladly paid $6 for raw milk. It made so much sense to me because it seemed in the best interest of those I was feeding.

Thanks mom, lunch was good today.
Thanks for feeding me in Rochester, Miriam.
Thanks for the amazing meal last night, Mark.
Thanks to everyone else who has ever bothered to feed me.