Oh, how I love to eat. I love popcorn with lots of margarine and salt on it. I love pizza, fast-food burgers, fresh cherries, dried cherries, ice cream, fried potatoes, and chocolate in all of its glorious forms. I love steak - medium well - with garlic mashed potatoes and any assortment of vegetables as long as they are swimming in butter. I love cookies. Bags of them. My heart sings when Girl Scout cookies start circulating, and pity my poor husband if he doesn't have any cash when they arrive.
Food is good.
When I was pregnant with my daughter, I read stacks of books on parenting. Massive tomes and well-thumbed paper-backs that were supposed to teach me how to be THE BEST MOM IN THE WORLD ('cause you can totally learn that from a book). I paid close attention to the chapters on food selection and preparation, because my super-child was going to have the best possible, longest, healthiest, most successful, completely sorrow-free, joyous, wonderful, perfect life that anyone could possibly ever have. And she has to eat every two hours. The food better be good.
Of course, as soon as she could form "no" (which happened frighteningly early), she was very clear about how much of what she wanted to eat (almost nothing) and when (almost never).
But that's a rant for another day. (More, here.)
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