food as metaphor

Okay, here's a question I'm posing to each of you to spill or share, if you're willing:

What does food mean to you?

(Lemme explain.)

I think of food as a metaphor. Food is never just food to most of us...it's comfort, love, nourishment, guilt, an unexpected treat, a gift, a curse...food is very emotional. And when someone else makes us food, it's doubly emotional.

I'll back up a bit by explaining what spurred this particular post. That Boy I Adore moved here a week and a half ago, on Columbus Day, and needed (understandably) a few days to get his place in order, and then I took off for the weekend on a camping and canoeing trip where I proceeded to panic and flail a lot and get lots of mosquito bites, because that's how I roll.

So I get back into town on Sunday afternoon and my guy offered to make me dinner that evening, at his place, as his pots and pans finally came in the mail and he bought groceries.

We eat a delicious dinner, he is careful not to put any red sauce on my stuffed pasta shells (I don't like red sauce), and the food is amazing. Also, he packs up the leftovers for me to take for lunch on Monday to work. Did I mention I adore this guy?

Monday night, I stop by his place for about twenty minutes just to say hi after work. Again, he has cooked dinner for me, which, when I have to leave, he packs up for me to eat later. I feel like a jerk for showing up for food and then running out the door.

Tuesday night, I have an acting class, but I show up, again for about half an hour after work, and lo and behold, he has made a delicious dinner again. And packed up leftovers for me to take to lunch on Wednesday.

Wednesday night, same thing. Amazing dinner, incredible dessert (he made chocolate covered strawberries to surprise me, even though I was the one who was supposed to make them), and then packed up the leftovers for me to take to lunch.

As we were eating last night, watching the Phillies beat the Dodgers on TV, something struck me. I put down my fork and looked at him. He looked over at me, concerned. Was there something wrong with the food?

No, I said. But it had just occurred to me that it had been over fourteen years since someone had cooked me dinner four times in a row. And I felt so incredibly loved by this.

You see, when my mom finally divorced my dad when I was a kid, she became a single full-time working mom, receiving no child support from my father. So we moved into a much smaller house, and it was just me and her, and we took care of each other, but because she worked all the time, I had to step up. I did all the grocery shopping, cooked all the meals, cleaned the house, made sure the bills were paid on time... I had to become an adult, really quickly. And I knew that if I was hungry, there wasn't going to be anyone there to feed me or cook for me. I had to learn how to do it myself.

Whenever my mom or someone else did cook for me when I was a kid, I would feel so incredibly loved and taken care of. It's a feeling I can't describe, really. But it was someone caring about my well-being, when I was raised in a home that didn't do that very often, and I felt special and watched over. Someone making food for me was a real treat, and to this day, it still is. I equate food with love, and when I want to show love or need to feel loved, there is usually food involved.

The worst part is, when I go to those deep, dark places where I don't love myself, I stop feeding myself. Incredibly unhealthy, I know, but we are all just human.

I'll tell you a secret: this past January and February, I was not okay. I was going through a devastating breakup with someone that I cared for very much, who cared for me very much, but we knew we weren't making each other happy. It was harder than just about anything I have ever done, to let this person go, and let him let me go.

I was not eating, at all. In fact, I was starving myself. Not because I thought I needed to lose weight. Not even because I thought I didn't deserve to eat. I wasn't eating because I simply couldn't function.

So I did one of the smartest things I've ever done (note how amazingly humble I am!): I put my friends on baby-sitting duty for me. I asked this girl, and this girl, and this girl, and this guy and his amazing fiancee, to come over each night and either help me make dinner or bring me something to eat because I was not okay.

And they did.

And I got through it all, because I knew I was loved.

So here I sit, eating my left-overs from yet another wonderful meal that was made for me, and I feel ridiculously loved and spoiled. And yes, I've already expressed gratitude to my guy, but I will, again:

Thank you, sweetie. I really, really appreciate it.



k guys, now it's your turn to share :)