Making Food = Making Love

That's all.

Almost. I need (knead) to make my own bread. Move closer to the equation.

Being Fed

A dear friend of mine has been away for a couple of weeks, and my overall enthusiasm for things has waned, let alone for cooking really good food.

Part of it is I don't have anyone to cook for. The aspect of super-applying oneself to bringing the best out of a flawed new recipe. When it's on the stove and cooking, I can still ramp up the heat and correct for too little browning. But it's hard to rise to the occasion when you really don't give a shit yourself, and you have no audience. I.e., you are cooking for yourself, alone.

The other part is that this dear friend of mine hasn't been cooking for me, since said dear friend is gone. It hit me moments ago that I miss being cooked for, on the one or two nights a week where we could get it together. And it was the cooking my friend grew up with. I miss being fed. I miss being fed by someone who puts stake in the sharing of meals -- love, life, mercy, sustenance, hospitality.

I miss being fed every once in a while.