reading.

The sad truth is that I actually don't read very much. Not books, anyway. I used to read entire issues of National Geographic in one sitting, but novels are a different story. "Readers" in my mind read novels, and I've always struggled with finding fiction interesting. As soon as a plot gets too clean, too fantastical, too predictable, I find myself losing interest.

Because Jared is great, he suggested that we start "couple book club" and read something together. This has been one of my secret romantic dreams, to read a book the same time as a boy, so I was willing to give fiction another chance. He chose "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith.

I was relieved to find that the main character feels the same way I do about fictional plots:

"Growing up spoiled the theater for Francie...she found she was becoming dissatisfied with the way things happened in just the nick of time...Francie couldn't understand why the heroine didn't marry the villain...surely a man who loved her so much that he was willing to go through all kinds of fuss because she wouldn't have him wasn't a man to ignore. At least, he was around while the hero was off on a wild-goose chase."

I identify so much with this book that it makes me a little uneasy to know that Jared has already read it all before me. (He's about 200 pages ahead of me.) It's got me thinking so much, so intensely about aspects of my life that I don't always consider with much depth. I've laughed and cried. I think about it all the time.

I guess this is what I've been missing out on by not "reading."

My enjoyment in reading this book reminded me when I was around 14 years old and Carl had just finished reading "A Separate Peace." He was crying as he read the end of the book and Tom said, "What are you crying for? I think you're crying because you finally finished a book." I remember thinking that it was so mean of him to say that, but maybe he was right. Maybe "readers" are used to viewing their lives from all angles and dealing with the range of emotions that books provoke.

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.