"How are you doing?" my older brother asked. Best friends since he filled my crib to over-flowing with toys he wanted to share with me, (My poor mother says she could barely see me under all the stuffed animals.) we talk on the phone at least twice a week.
"I'm, fine." I punched "speaker" on my phone so I could clean the kitchen counter while we chatted. "That ten pounds I lost last year is back and now I have to loose it again."
"Me too." Phil grumbled. "My wife, she never gains an ounce. Is it genetics?"
"No," I laughed. "I think we just love food."
I realized, in a nutshell, I had spoken a whole lot of truth. I love food. Not feeling full, necessarily, but the smell, the texture, the appearance...I love to put something really good in my mouth and figure out what went into it. Garlic? Cinnamon? Lemon zest?
I often find myself on my day off reading cookbooks like the latest novel. I can take a recipe on paper and build it in my mind until the aroma fills my senses and my mouth waters.
The thing is, I know I'm not alone. So this blog is for all of you who struggle with weight, or life or anything else, but find joy in the art, the taste the smell or the texture of something well cooked.
Here is a toast (European butter, and orange blossom honey smeared on top) to the joy of food.
Join me will you?
Liz, I feel like you are "right on" with the love of food. Some times I feel like I'm digging my own grave with a spoon and a fork. I know better but boy are those raviolis delicious! One of my few remain pleasures in life.
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