My grandmother used to love to feed the ones she loved. A typical meal was hamburgers, corn on the cob, mushrooms, rice, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and the special favorite food of every single person coming to the table, be it grape Jell-O or liver and onions. And when I say "a typical meal," I mean pretty much every meal.
Not surprisingly, she was fat. Grandpa was fat. Their dogs were all fat. And, because Grandma babysat me, I was fat, at least as a toddler in Iowa. (Somehow my mom was thin. She must have been a rebellious teen.)
My dad always told us, "Grandma's problem is that she equates food with love." So I grew up thinking, "Silly Grandma. Food isn't the same as love."
But now I'm not so sure. When I get up early to make the kids hashbrowns for breakfast, aren't I saying, "I love you and want you to start your day with something that's at least one step up from Frosted Mini Wheats"?
When my husband brought me chocolate in a heart-shaped box, wasn't he saying, "I love you enough to give you exactly what you want"?
And when he brought me an absolutely delicious, 100% healthy, vegetable-packed dinner at my desk as I frantically pounded away at a deadline, wasn't he saying, "I love you enough to warn you right now, put down the chocolate and back slowly away from the heart-shaped box before you make us both miserable for the rest of the night"?
Don't tell me food doesn't equal love.
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