Can food become your comfort place?
I am aware of the existence of comfort food. But that is a long, tedious process. One must drag themselves into a badly ventilated kitchen that makes you hot and sticky, and slave over pots and pans for a really long time, only to remove all traces of it’s existence in an hour or so.
But comfort places? There is no slaving there. You can simply close your eyes while everything around you increases in irritation, and whisk yourself away to a magical land.
My comfort place, is a brownie. Ordered, not cooked.
I finished the last square today, after managing-painfully- to extend it’s lifespan for three full days. It surprised me every evening, with a little extra heaviness. With chocolate chips that formed little ripples in a wave of fudgey-ness.
My comfort place came to me in a tiny orange box. A beautiful, beautiful orange box, heavy with three tiers of brownies. The joys of removing a brownie crumbed butter paper division to find more brownies is exactly what I wished for in a comfort place. A place that keeps on giving, one that keeps on surprising.
I think the best part about having food be your comfort place is this– every place you envision yourself eating it in suddenly becomes tolerable. My precious little brownies have smoothened relationships, made me a person capable of forgiveness and tolerance. It makes me want to kiss everyone hello and goodbye. I would practice any bit of kindness to be left alone, to continue being lost forever in every tiny bite I took a few hours ago.
I love you brownie. And I miss the way you loved me. How you stuck in corners of my mouth without being too clingy, how you loved me with every cocoa bean that went into your making.
I miss you so much brownie.
I’m calling you again, soon.