the move, ad nauseam

We’ve been here a month now and it’s taken me about this long to direct my focus to the area restaurants, with the exception of the pizza joints.There’s a nice little Indian place that does takeout and I found the one Thai place in town. So I’m set. I don’t do restaurants as much I used to, and even when I do go, I favor places that specialize in things I don’t do well…Indian, Thai, Jamaican….

C. has found a nifty little gourmet grocery and is in heaven. He goes every single day and raves about this and that. Shelves in the fridge are suspiciously filling up with little jars and pastes of this condiment and that one, pushing the yogurt, the whole wheat flour and the flax seed to the outer edges. These exotic nifties are used to dress up his Chef Boyardee specialties. It may be time for another intervention. Or another fridge.

Emm is the perfect hybrid of the two competing palates  in this house. Sure, she’ll snarf down Spaghettio’s, disgusting meatballs and all, but she’ll also eat any legume I give her and will even eat things I won’t…oatmeal, all seafood, avocadoes. Everything except lima beans so far…and who on earth eats those? I’m very fortunate.

It mostly amuses me, this difference in preferences. I chalk it up to rebellion on both our parts. C. had the childhood I dream of….a mom who bought from the co-op, grew her vegetables, and made homemade granola. Although she did raise bunnies for food (shudder) and craves goat seasonally. Goat. C. and his sister have never really gotten over the fact that their childhood was devoid of Marshmallow Fluff.  My mom, on the other hand, sustained us on a diet of Hamburger Helper, Lipton Cup a Soup, and various Freezer Queen entrees. I can’t look at turkey bologna without feeling queasy. It’s not that she can’t cook…she does very well with potatoes, especially. She just doesn’t have a domestic bone in her body. We were not, needless to say, raised to be domestic goddesses. And on certain tedious tasks, I am in agreement with her. But not on food.

I was clueless about cooking in general though and survived on salads and cottage cheese and the occassional diner food well into my twenties. Until I went to art school. There I met a beautiful, brilliant teacher, a painter, who made the correlation for me between painting and food. Mixing pallettes=mixing ingredients. That’s all the inpiration I needed. I ran with it. I love to cook now. Soups especially. Breads, muffins. I feel gypped if we go somewhere else for Thanksgiving. I want to do the feast.

Love for me is feeding people, among other things. But I’ve made my peace and realize that love in this house means surrendering refrigerator real estate. And looking the other way.

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