I am supposed to be dancing in a blur of green chiffon at a black tie gala, but my date got sick. Gerry cancelled the trip and went back to bed. No place like home: I immediately tackled the long overdue dirty refrigerator and then headed south on US23 40 miles to visit my mom in the hospital, who is recovering from knee surgery.
Upon my late return, however, I did dine by candlelight with Alec and his buddy Demaris. Apparently Alec’s history class prompted him to suggest dining like Abe Lincoln did. It was a fancy affair, the boys had frozen pizza and a late, fragrant Michigan melon.
I chose sprouted whole grain toast with Michigan berry jam for my repast. That is my go to comfort food. I got thinking about comfort food because Gerry always dines on pizza and beer when he is under the weather. And sure enough, when he finally ate today, after a 24 hour fast, that is what he chose. I used to insist that this habit was idiosyncratic at best, unhealthy at worst. But after 20 years of marriage, I’ve given up trying to convince him that I have a line on what he needs.
The truth is, everyone has his or her own idea of what constitutes comfort food. And it is just not a rational process. (My friend Kathy craves mashed potatoes.)
Demaris put the cap on my thoughts. He turned 15 yesterday and I had gathered the ingredients for a cake for a belated celebration. He looked at me when I asked him what kind of frosting he wanted and said: “you know Mrs. Anderson, you know what I’d really like, I want some of those Among Friends scones. I just love those things.” He, Alec, and Gerry are among my chief tasters in the product development arena, so they have tasted dozens of items still on the baking board. Among Friends does not yet produce scones but I knew just what recipe he was hankering for.
I looked at him with a grin. Did I really just hear you, Mr. potato chip, ask for a whole grain, gluten free, nut meal scone for your birthday treat? He made my day. I couldn’t have been happier if he had asked for sprouted whole grain toast.
“Comfort food,” I mused to myself. I guess when my mom comes home from the hospital I’ll be making custard pies.