Marble Rye

I had a lunch at my dear friend, Kay’s, today. Kay is one of my favorite people on the planet – loving, easygoing, generous, honest, good. And normal about food.

As we were eating and chatting, Kay said, “this bread is so disappointing.”

Her husband had picked it, marble rye bread. Not her first choice, but she gave it a try. And it just didn’t cut it.

Her commented interested me. It’s been a long time since I’ve considered wheter was as good as I’d hoped it would be.

Kim loves food – eating it, cooking it, baking it, feeding it to others. She grows vegetables and love wholesome, healthy meals. For Kay, each meal can and should be joyous – even the lunch she packs for work each day needs to please her.

For me, as long as it doesn’t taste bad, I really don’t care. I don’t ‘love’ food, not anymore.

But did I ever love food? Did I ever actually enjoy it? From a very, very early age I shoveled it in mass quantities to soothe myself. As I grew older, food became my everything – I lived to stuff down my feelings. Later, I lived to restrict. I either binged or starved; gorged or withheld; all or nothing.

But did I ever love food for food? Did I ever eat slowly enough to enjoy it? Could I appreciate one warm slice of freshly baked bread? A perfectly ripe peach? A small scoop of ice cream.?
That would be NOOOOO!!!

Kay and I don’t eat same the way. For her, food is lovable. For me, it’s just food. For Kay, marble rye is disappointing. For me, it’s just bread.

It beats food as EVERYTHING. I’m cool šŸ™‚

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