today i wish i could escape but i am too responsible to close the shades and hide under the down comforter like alex. a day i try not to consider what i need to consider - instead i eat too many cookies. food is simple to me - comforting the way it demands nothing of me and offers the essential act of opening the mouth - putting the food on the tongue - chewing and swallowing. one day someone asked me to

write everything i know about ice cream.

why do we always have to know?

why can't we gratefully accept the cold sweet cream sliding off our taste buds into our bellies and let that be enough? why can't we be awake in the moment ice cream or any sweet gift is offered and welcome it with joy and delight and child-like expectation? it might make us fat - it might not - we don't care. it tastes good. that is enough - it used to be enough. when i was a little barefoot country girl with dirty feet and dandelion fluff in my hair - the ice cream freezer filled with sweet cream and fresh strawberries - rock salt sitting on the ice - daddy turning the crank for eternity before the ice cream was ready - i would nearly burst with anticipation. when supper was done and the sun was dipping in the sky - the frost covered canister was taken out and the top removed. my parents were smug with satisfaction that such bounty could be offered to glad children with sticky chins, full bellies, smiling contentment.

when did it become not enough? when did ice cream begin to give me a stomach ache?

*****

and there was also

lime, orange, cherry - with sliced bananas turning brown in the bright liquid. the cure for what ails you - especially if you're seven - itching, crying, hurting, trying not to scratch the chicken pox sores by the eyes and on the cheeks. they'll leave a scar. mama knew jello would make me feel better - bring a little light to my face as the jiggling little mountain of red in my chipped white bowl was presented along with a soft touch and sympathetic smile. sweet cold melting popping in my teeth easing the fevered throat and pushing aside the sickness for a few minutes.

later it was jello cups in plastic with tinfoil tops held in perfect order in the cardboard container - waiting to be torn apart and placed in the hands of my tiny children, in sickness but also in health - when we needed to laugh at the jolly jello squishing through the miniature teeth of two small cherubs. then the giggling and gurgling and sometimes complete loss of control with red sprays covering the wall, the couch and my smiling face. jello - the food that really isn't food - just a little burst of imitation flavor surrounded by miracle powder to let it melt into hot water and settle into whatever shape is desired. jello - the nonfood for kids and the belly aches of life and the last great hope to shed the pounds that won't leave us to be in love with ourselves again.

*****

but the most comforting of all is soup.

soup tastes like home - like my favorite sweat pants on a cold november day, like the lumpy blue blanket and the smell of vanilla candles and a wood fire. soup tastes like safety and mama nearby - a fat purring cat curled in my lap - like the garden still nourishing, giving life, sustaining its good intentions. soup is family settled around the dinner table on a sunday afternoon with no particular place to go and taming the beast and surrendering the battle. soup is snuggling in with soft spoken words to lull you to peace and contentment - a revelation of goodness and belonging that says settle down - settle in - take your shoes off and become who you are.

*****

and it is not enough to eat only salad for lunch - i need a big hunk of warm crispy whole wheat baguette with a little olive oil and salt. food for the soul - basic - pure - grains of the earth, fed by the sun, gathered by a strong weathered man with honest calloused hands and deep smile lines around his mouth and eyes because how could a man with such a noble and life-giving job be anything less than peacefully satisfied and joyful. it is this simplicity i want - to live close to the earth, to pick the blackberries i will put in the cobbler, to kiss in the kitchen with onion on my hands, to laugh if the pancakes burn and my hair is bristly and we are tired and broken but our hearts are open and filled with rocks and wine and thorny branches of beautiful red roses and tears. i want to eat big chunks of warm bread without thought of consequence or calories or tomorrow, but to eat with gratitude for the life before me, behind me, within me - to kiss and hug for no good reason - to breathe air filled with gardenias and sweet lavendar and car exhaust - because i am alive.