I love eating and preparing food. Correction, I love eating and preparing delicious food. Why the clarification? Because I just flashed back to the night when I ate mealworms, crickets, and ant larva in tacos, yes, they are delicacies for some but not for me. I could not get past the idea of eating insects I run from when they are alive and crawling around my garage. Eating them as a lesson for my children was an epic failure. We were in that phase of life when parents teach their teenagers to keep an open mind and to be adventurous by example. When in Zihuantanejo… Let’s just say, score one children and zero for mom.
My dad is culpable for cursing me with a passion for well-prepared food. He will be finishing breakfast and start inquiring about the menu for lunch (sometimes he even asks about dinner as he pushes away from the breakfast table). Most of my fondest memories are of my family together enjoying dinner and good wine (an obsession developed later in life). In my youth, typically I would be the last one up from the table for one of three reasons. One, I would eat slowly and purposefully enjoying each morsel on my plate. Two, I needed time and privacy to execute my plan for getting the vegetables off the plate and into the dog’s tummy. Three, I waited to see if anyone wanted the last piece of bread. If not, I would slip into a trance (bread coma) as I ate the last buttered biscuit with jelly dripping from between the layers. Each bite was blissful. One day I will have to tell the story about my dear friend Ari spanking my hand as I mindlessly grabbed a fifth piece of bread from the basket while we shared lunch recently
Bread is my kryptonite. I blame my adoration for the creatively crafted dough on William, my late grandfather, a baker who made pillow soft Parker House rolls from scratch with such care and love. He often served me a slice of bread slathered with butter and a sprinkle of sugar for lunch (sorry mom he was in charge). My grandfather showed his love for me in the way he knew best, with food.
Equating comfort with food has brought me joy and a bit of pain. Mostly joy which I find in eating something for the first time. For instance, today at lunch honestly, I ate the perfect sandwich at Hacienda Del Sol Resort. Crusty artisanal BREAD, fresh mozzarella, heirloom tomatoes, and a generous smear of homemade pesto combined to create joy on a plate. The cheese oozed out of the toasted crust as I bit into the first crunchy bite, causing me to momentarily levitate out of my chair. It was one of the best first bites of a sandwich I ever experienced. Oh yes, the pain came later when I had to spend forty-five minutes on the elliptical at the gym, but let’s not go there. By the way, it was a special luncheon and the sandwich is unfortunately not on the hotel’s menu, trust me I checked their website after I left the hotel.
It is comforting to eat a great meal and even more fulfilling when I prepare an amazing meal for friends. When I cook for others it is an expression of my love for each person nourished by our shared meal. Being in the kitchen is soothing and cathartic for me. The stress of the day fades away as I become one with my chef’s knife. Food sustains life, so I figure preparing and eating it might as well be enjoyed. Hmmm, I wonder if I can get the chef to make that sandwich again?