So this morning I woke to the smell of roasting chicken. Last night I put two chickens, roughly the size of two small turkeys, on to roast. I plan to use these chickens today in a variety of culinary delights. I feel like the Bubba Gump of the poultry world. A little of it we will freeze and keep for quick dinners when school starts up again, but most of it will be tallied out to other people. I have friends going through rough patches, some of them temporary, but unfortunately, some of them permanent.
I suppose as much as I have tried to avoid it over the years, I am my mother's child. When times get tough, there is this instinctual need to batten down the hatches, stock up for the winter. I usually meet this need by cooking and baking. I love words, but I so often lack them when I feel most compelled to tell people I care, so I just cook or bake them something. It reminds me of my grandmother telling me in her thick Czech accent "Here, Misha, eat." So I would, and even though the comfort was often just temporary, I did feel better. Fortified by her love delivered on the crumbs of kolaches. I know I am an emotional eater, but I suppose I have become an emotional feeder.
And those bananas sitting in the dark corner of my counter look just right for banana bread.
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