food of love

I've found the easiest way to get Harley to sleep is to start cooking something, anything. Provided he's already been fed, of course. The sounds and smells of the kitchen are so just comforting and hypnotising. (Yeah, I know I recently wrote that I don't cook, but I wrote that when I had PMT and the world always looks starkly different then. Because I do cook, almost every day. And sometimes I actually quite enjoy it.)
It's got be one of the great pleasures of childhood, drifting off to sleep while something's fragrantly sizzling in the background. My parents are both enthusiastic cooks and of all the things I remember of my childhood, food seems to feature most heavily. In almost all my photos, I seem to be eating. Orally fixated, I think.
My mother baked sourdough bread every night--ah, there's nothing like falling asleep to that. My father's specialty on the other hand was Asian food and he still makes the best laksa I've ever eaten, though he has competition now from my sister-in-law, who is Thai-Chinese. Her idea of cooking you a snack is to quickly throw together seven or more Thai dishes, and she's one of those cooks who makes it look a total breeze. My brother really porked up during the first few years of marriage, though he's back to normal now, so he must be exercising a bit more restraint! Or just exercising. Or just having to share the food with the kids now. Anyway, I really miss her cooking (they've been living in America for the past four years).
Speaking of food, I've been puzzling about what Harley must think whenever I tell him we're eating chicken. After all, he has a pretty good relationship with a number of Oma's chooks. I'm sure he looks at me strangely whenever I say it. It's not as if we ever eat "cat" or "dog", and last time he checked, bananas weren't running around the garden playing hide-n-seek.