Made with love

Coronavirus Survivor’s Log- Day 22

I am torn between the idea of tracking the number of days we spend in isolation for posterity’s sake and ending the tracking because watching the days go by actually is a little bit insanity inducing. But for now, I will continue to count the days I think. Today is the third day that I got up, got dressed and created a to do list. Truly, for working in an industry that is completely shut down right now, I am busier than I have ever been. The imagination wheel is turning so fast I feel as though there is steam coming out of my ears. I am struggling with finding the balance between my work space and my home space since technically they both take place, well, within the same space…but I am learning to balance those…sort of. Between that and resetting my super whacked sleep schedule, I think after nearly a month, I am beginning to figure things out.

Today’s writing prompt popped into my head because of my son’s request for shepherd’s pie for dinner. He said it was one of his favorite dishes because “it always tasted like love to him.” That got me thinking about what love tastes like and I came up with this prompt:

Tell me about a time you tasted love in the food. Write for ten minutes…GO!

My grandma used to say you could tell when food was cooked angry or with joy. She said if you tasted it with your heart and ate it slow and with focus, you could tell just what kind of mood the cook was in when they made it. She said the secret to her cast iron skillet biscuits was love. She said she never made biscuits when she was angry…they wouldn’t rise.

And she was right. My grandma’s food always tasted like love. The songs she hummed while she cooked were sung back to you by the spices she would use….even when she sliced a tomato from her garden and salted and peppered it carefully…you could taste the love right there on the plate.

My dad’s mother infused love into her food too. I still remember the pot roast she would have ready for us on the first night we would come to visit. I remember the green serving dish she plated it up on and the fact that it never needed more salt. She would always make me a fried egg and toast for breakfast and I still, to this day, can’t make it taste the same.

My mama’s chili can make all your problems disappear for a moment…or her potato soup…or her chicken devan casserole. It’s always made with the perfect amount of spice and full of all the comforts of home. It feels like a hug in a bowl.

I hope that my food feels that way. Full of all the mysticism of a mother’s love and the secret truth that I never make the same thing twice because I never measure or fully follow the recipe and always cook by heart.

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