Grateful for a Home Cooked Meal

I am grateful for a home-cooked meal. Reminiscing, I am thankful for all the meals my mother prepared for my family and me. Moreover, I am grateful for the sacrifice those many hours of cooking represented. Presently, as I cook for myself—and others on occasion—I begin to grasp the tenderness and warmth embedded within a home-cooked meal. There is an intimacy to the food itself, from the connection with the raw ingredients to the final dish. And, there is also an intimacy for who the food feeds, to nourish who needs to be fed, to sustain who needs sustenance, and to love someone who needs loving.

There is something lacking in restaurant dishes (certainly it’s not butter). Yes, there is an ingredient and service missing that neither a professional chef nor waiter can provide or deliver. In restaurants, you are served by contract, fed and treated like a king because you control the treasury. You are a customer but neither family nor friends. The chef and servers do not put food on the table for you; they put food on the table for themselves. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that. We all have to eat.

It’s odd. When I was young, all I wanted was to eat out; now that I’m older, all I want is to eat in. I don’t want to eat like a king. I’d rather eat like family or a friend.

I am grateful for a home-cooked meal.