I love feeding
people. Nature or nurture, I don't know, but I do know that every time we visit
my very Filipina grandma the first thing she says (after "Oh! You're
getting so big!") is, "Are you hungry? Do you want something to
eat?"
Add to that the
years of game nights with friends and family that start and end clustered in
the kitchen, and it becomes easier to see why I give away the majority of the
food I create.
There's a definite
pattern to the disappearance of my baking bonanzas and cooking culminations.
First is the creation, which is occasionally interrupted by knocks on the door
from Christian's empty-fridge-neighbor Luke and "what smells so good?!"
from passers-by. Then is the hand-slapping until I deem the baking/cooking
ready for ingestion, which is occasionally too reminiscent of scolding the
family pet.
Finally the
consumption commences, starting with whoever happens to be in the room at the
elusive moment when the food is "cool enough" or simply
"done." I eat some. Christian normally eats some, unless he's trying
to be healthy and the product is definitely not (and even then I'll catch him
sneaking little nibbles). I go knock on the neighbors' doors, and they eat
some.
Once, after
christening a pie plate with 7-layer dip, one neighbor told another and he came
to eat some, too. If it's baked goods, I put some on a plate and bring it to
the across-the-hall neighbor who I've never talked to aside from these
exchanges and asking for a hammer.
(As an alternative
to this series of knocks, I sometimes post the mandatory food portfolio
pictures straight to Facebook, and then the neighbors come knocking themselves.
This did backfire on them once, though, when they thought the newly added
pictures of bread were different from the loaf they had eaten earlier that day.
They weren't.)
If, however, there's
still some of whatever it was left after the horde descends and it's best eaten
fresh or if it's too dangerous to sit and tempt me in the kitchen (or both -
looking at you, Brazilian cheese bread puffs), then I pack it up and tote it
along wherever I'm going that day. Chocolate-chip cookie-dough chocolate
cupcakes go to my friends' dorm.
The aforementioned cheese bread tags along to
ballroom practice, where the inimitably exuberant Sandy gushes her undying
affection for me: "OH MY GAWD I LOVE YOU. Can I seriously eat more?
Really? You are the BESSST. THANK YOU!!!" (Note: If you know Sandy, you
should agree that the multiple exclamation marks are necessary.)
Then I go back to
the room to find that Christian has been snacking mindlessly while he programs,
so I rescue the remaining food (and save some for myself).
Throughout the rest
of the day, I normally keep eating until I recognize that I'm sliding back and
forth along a familiar teeter-totter of self-congratulation for being such an
amazing cook and self-deprecation for WHAT AM I DOING how did that cookie get
in my hand?!
So I resume offering
the goodies to people, often a little more insistently this time around.
Living in college
dorms may not be great for privacy or feng shui or flu outbreaks, but it sure
makes it easier to share food and do what I love.
I love feeding
people. I love the initial moment of disbelief when I offer them a fresh-baked
cookie or steaming plate of spaghetti. I love the unadulterated joy that lights
up their faces when I reassure them that yes, I'm serious, please help
yourself. I love the sounds of contentment that people unconsciously make as
they indulge themselves just because, the tell-tale combination of
eyes-shut-throat-humming. I love knowing that I've made their day just a little
better. I love thinking that maybe I've helped assuage a hunger that goes
beyond the stomach.
