I spent some time one summer with my aunt when I was around thirteen. I don’t remember exactly how long I was there; I just know I was there long enough that it felt like home, and I never wanted to leave.
I didn’t eat very often as a kid, and I don’t think anyone really paid attention to that. When I lived with my dad, he didn’t cook, though he’d take me out when he had the money. We usually had some groceries, but never much. When I lived with my mother, there was no food in the house at all. She refused to cook, telling me stories about how she would never be oppressed by a man again or told what to do. While I can appreciate her perspective now as an adult, at the time, I was just hungry. My sister and grandmother would cook, to be fair, but I wasn’t around them often. I just kind of slid through the cracks; no one was watching.
My aunt’s house was different. It was clean, it smelled good, and it was decorated. I had never been in a home that was “decorated” before—there was never any “extra” for things like that. She cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for me every day, or we went somewhere together. She taught me how to cook—or at least the basic ideas.
I don’t know if she remembers any of this, but we made stew together. We just talked and laughed while we did it. We would go on bike rides in the evening; it was the best summer I ever had as a kid.
I love to cook now. I spend most of my days planning various meals for my kids and my family. It’s important to me, and I’m grateful for the ability to do it. It has taken a long time and a lot of work to not just be angry about the things that happened when I was a kid—and honestly, not eating was a minor thing in the grand scheme. But I’m not angry anymore; I haven’t been for a long time. The upside to that peace is that I can look back now and see the good memories. This one is my favorite.
The Existential Diatribe 