My father was the original "Foodie" He loved food of all kinds. Especially the food my mother made. Every meal she made was wonderful (in his mind) and he was grateful.
"Thank you Beautiful, you sure know the way to my heart"
I'm sure at that time my mother was thinking "Oh great, now I've done it. Irish Lover Boy is in a good mood. Just what I need." As she spooned meatloaf out on the plate of child number 6 hoping the kids wouldn't mind the fact that she had to stretch the 1/2 pound of burger with a box of saltines.
We didn't mind. We were hungry and didn't know much better. Now, a few years later I've fairly entrenched in the world of food. Local, all natural, beyond organic, frozen meat to groceries, fresh carcasses to the restaurants and 100% grass fed in our little farm store, etc... etc... food. Still, I'd give a million critically endangered Red Wattles with their awesome back fat and super luscious loins just to have my mom in front of us again serving over cooked meatloaf swimming in a bath of watered down ketchup.
Food is love in so many ways. It certainly makes my husband very happy when I cook for him. Men. Made simple by God to make up for the insanity of all womankind. I can say those kind of things. I'm an ex-feminist. A couple of mornings ago I made him some of these
Weird thing was, after I cooked them and fed them all to hubbie, not telling him which eggs came from where, he liked them all and couldn't tell the difference. The moral of the story ?
My husband is happy when I cook for him. Period