Food is Love

Food has always been a big part of my life.  No, I'm not a compulsive eater or a closet junk-food-junkie, but I LOVE to eat.  I eat throughout the day and constantly have something in my mouth, whether it's an apple, Cheez-its, almonds, yogurt, popcorn, oatmeal, whatever.  Food makes me happy.  When my friends come over, I always put something in front of them, even if they're not hungry, and they end up eating anyway (side note: if you're on a diet, you may not want to visit me).  I remember living in this one apartment that had a pantry in the dining room, and it was stacked from top to bottom with every snack you could imagine: cookies, potato chips, pretzels, crackers, nuts, candy, you name it, it was probably on the shelves.  My best friend at the time would come over and we'd plow through a good chunk of them.  "I love coming over here," I remember her saying, "because there's always so much to eat!"  I definitely get this from my mom: I feed you because I love you; I love you because I feed you.  Food is love.  Love is food.



Meals were always a big to-do in my family, ever since I can remember.  When it was just the family, it was nothing too fancy, but the food was always delicious, and there was so much of it; we never longed for a full stomach.  And if guests were coming, my mom was a madwoman.  She'd prepare for days, and her three daughters had no choice, of course, but to be her begrudging assistants.  My mother ruled with an iron spatula.  WHACK!  It was her kitchen, so you'd better follow the General's commands, 
or you'd ache from the severe tongue-lashings.  Or, you'd just get stuck peeling mounds and mounds of garlic in the corner while the other assistants were busy deep frying this or decorating that.  Weird punishment, I know.  My mother ran a tight kitchen, albeit a touch Hitler-esque, but it paid off.  Dishes magically bloomed into the most extraordinary masterpieces; the presentation was truly breath-taking sometimes.  And it didn't just look pretty.  When you took that first bite, your eyes would roll back into your head, your taste buds would dance on your tongue, your throat would open up wide, begging you not to stop (my mouth is watering right now just thinking about all that deliciousness!), while your stomach eagerly awaited the delectable delights.  Those were some lucky guests, because they never left empty-handed.

My mom will be 70 this year, so she doesn't cook as much or as often as she used to, tapering off quite noticeably over the last five or six years.  She's blind in one eye, and arthritis has overtaken her deformed and obviously-painful fingers.  Not being able to see well and having your hands hurt while you're trying to julienne carrots, well, that would put a damper in anyone's ability to create a visual and palatable feast, no?  Even so, every time I stop over to see my parents, my mom insists on feeding me, and most times, I don't argue.  My mom's talent for making something scrumptious from nothing particularly exciting in the fridge is still very much alive and well.  And when I tell my parents it's time for me to leave, my mom scurries to the kitchen and comes back with a bag (it could be apples, a jar of kimchee, homemade dumplings, homegrown tomatoes, anything really) and says, "Here, take this home with you."  After all, food IS love.