Last night, I did not have much energy for things like cooking. We had a long day, punctuated by kids getting sick and needing to be picked up from school, daily babysitting, chores chores and more chores… And then, I answered a text.
The resulting shitstorm of passive aggressive thinly veiled narcissistic rage unleashed upon me in a phone conversation zapped any energy I had left. Also, I might be sick too. I love my life in all its ups and downs, but revisiting once important childhood relationships aren’t always a good idea. On the upside, I had a rush of clarity and a bunch of ‘aha’ moments. The downside? Ugh. I don’t even want to think about the prospect of being visited by my mom.
So I did what any self-respecting human would do and had some beer and asked my husband if he would make some spaghetti. He did, and it was yummy.
What does this have to do with my parentage, besides my already waning energy levels being depleted? (Granted, I could have easily sucked it up and made pasta myself) My mother is an excellent cook. Sometimes, I feel like my connection to the food I make mirrors hers and that realization is a constant battle to just let it be and to balance sanity with the utter chaos of my past. Food is needed. So is the love of a parent. But I won’t die without the latter, and so it keeps going round and round.
Anyway, I will now shamelessly plug a blog I write on sometimes right here on wordpress, which deals with similar issues because I find it relevant to this particular dinner and the whole idea of examining the deeper meaning behind food choices as a whole. Until tomorrow…