It’s been one of those days when my klutziness far outweighs my other attributes. After sliding down the last half of the staircase in our house and landing soundly on my behind, I watched a DVD of Upstairs Downstairs and made myself some polenta.
It seems like anytime the day gets the best of me and meal time rolls around, I crave porridge–oatmeal, grits, polenta. Or I want something that Dad made when we were kids, like crepes with sugar and cinnamon. Really anything that makes me feel about ten and protected, even if I have to cook it myself.
When things were going especially badly with Keifel’s visa, I showed up at Our Lady J’s very much forlorn and fed up with the INS and my job. She poured me a cold glass of milk and made me a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich. It was the best (and only PB&J) I’d had in years and made me feel instantly better and cared for.
I think I probably ate my weight in oatmeal when I was pregnant with the boychick and turns out it’s one of his favorite breakfasts. Sadly, my dad never got to make him crepes, but I have and he likes those, too.
I know it’s very non-PC to associate food with love and what not, but it was a loving thing for my dad to get up extra early and make something special for my little brother and me. The PC police can kiss my bruised behind on that score. My dad was a great cook and I will always associate certain dishes with him. I don’t think that is a danger to my psyche or anymore of a danger to my waist line than my serious sweet tooth is. I just wish dad was still around to see how my crepe making prowess has progressed.
