Food Will Always Win Over My Heart

Valentine’s Day. It’s the holiday equivalent of a bill collector’s phone call. Yes, I’m aware of my perpetual singleness. Thanks for reminding me. Another night of eating cold Chef Boy-Ardee out of the can before writing in my cry journal and rocking myself to sleep.

Okay, so maybe it’s not all that bad. I’ll heat the can up. After all, I still have my dignity!

But the other day, for whatever reason, I started to think back on the most meaningful gifts I’ve ever received from (significant) others. And I noticed a rather incredible pattern.

It’s all food.

Men, and often rightfully so, have been accused of thinking with other bodily organs other than the brain. Apparently, I fall under that category as well. Only my organ of decision making is the stomach.

It Started a Lifetime Ago

Grade school. It seems like a lifetime ago (if not several).

I was in fifth grade. There was a girl I had an eye on. Of course, at the time I was shy. Well, shyer than I am now (although I prefer to use the word “observant” than shy). When she liked someone she would give them something. Like a candy bar or a pack of gum. It was her way of showing her affection. Or buying theirs.

Every few weeks (or perhaps it was months, my 5th-grade memory has become a bit fuzzy) our class would switch desk assignments. My desk eventually ended up behind hers. We would exchange a few words when she handed back papers. And then, one day, it happened. She turned around, and instead of handing back papers she handed back a king-size Snickers.

Goosebumps surged down my back as neck hair stood at attention. My cheeks went flush. I knew what the candy bar gift meant. And a king-size to boot!

High School Cookies

As a high school junior, I had a crush on a girl a year older than me. She was an athletic trainer who dealt with taping up sweaty feet before football practice. Despite riding the bench I managed to inflame my ankles. Taping them up helped keep the fire subdued. She just happened to be the best taper. She also insisted on doing my feet (in terms of sweaty football feet, mine probably weren’t all that bad when considering the alternatives).

Outside of her gift-wrapping my feet, we had a film as literature class together and A.P. art. We’d go to nude drawing classes at Michigan State University (which I’m sure wigged the model out when a 17 and 18-year-old would show up) and we’d linger after school to work on art projects. She also had a “cool kid” boyfriend. In the caste system of high school, someone such as myself couldn’t compete with that.

Yet on my birthday, during our first period of film as literature, she walked in and placed on my desk a giant plate of home-baked cookies. Peanut butter cookies. My favorite. I don’t even know how she knew they were my favorite.

Goosebumps.

You Do It So Often You Don’t Know How To React When It’s Done For You

Through a rather strange road of connections, I eventually found myself creating recipe videos for a brand of the New York Times. I absolutely loved that job. I’d document the preparation of six recipes a week, slick it up with editing, then ship off the finished product.

Up until that point my cooking background consisted primarily of watching Everyday Italian on Food Network (let’s face it, Giada had that effect on a number of people).

Anyway, I completely fell in love with all things food, and so whenever I had a date I would insist on cooking. I still more or less do that. Even if it’s not a date. I rarely cook for myself, so I’ll take any opportunity I can to make something for someone else.

A slight problem bubbled to the surface with that approach though. I had more than one person essentially refuse to cook for me because, as they put it, they “couldn’t compete.”

Basically I inadvertently friend zoned my shared cooking potential. I outkicked my dinner coverage and they refused to run it back.

I never meant for that to happen, but when you enjoy something you continue on. Basically, I became accustomed to it.

Until one day I had someone ask me out to a picnic, and they made the sandwiches.

It was nothing extravagant. Yet it meant something to me. Five years later I’m still thinking of a pastrami on rye prepared by someone I’ll likely never see again.

Why is that?

Why has food become maybe not the secret to my heart, because obviously none of those relationships ever lasted (and many never formed to begin with), but to my mind?

I can’t speak for other people out there, but I think for me it’s the effort that goes into it. The fact this person was thinking of me while putting it together. Or When picking it out.

I’ve always been someone who would rather receive a gift that didn’t cost any money but took thought over something big and extravagant.

Because is there anything better than knowing someone was thinking of you and acted on the thought?

Maybe it’s because it hasn’t happened all too often, so it more readily stands out.

Or perhaps it really is because I think with my stomach.

It’s Not Going Anywhere

It’s funny, I had this thought last week. One of those random idea bubbles that float to the top of your brain and just lingers there until something pops it.

The next day I had a book club meeting. Book club consists of myself and realistically my best friend in town. We had finished All The Pretty Horses and were going to watch the movie (FYI, read the book, skip the movie).

Having her over gave me an excuse to cook. Indian food. Because nothing says a Texas into Mexico novel like chicken tikka masala and basmati rice.

As I was finishing up she went to her purse and that’s when it happened.

She passed back a candy bar.

The gift of thought.

Goosebumps.

Now I have something for Valentine’s Day.

And it’s so much better than Chef Boy-Ardee.