Sop it all up

I like to cook more than I like to eat, but there are not nearly enough people in my family (or my immediate life) to satisfy this desire to feed. I used to have dinner parties: 13 in 14 days once; I made stew, every day stew. It was cold in Shanghai in February and my friends were leaving, each on e a few days after the other. They were my family and they were leaving. They were the once who showed me my place in the world and they were going to go find their places in the world. So I cooked. I cooked to show them how much I cared about them, how much I loved them and would miss them. Somehow it is clear to me that stew, wine, cheese and chocolate means “I love you.” I communicate affection through food; I recognize that now. I learned for sure in college, but can readily admit it now.

I once was attracted to a colleague in grad school, but I knew it would not work out when he came over to eat but only wanted naked pasta and water. I knew I could never love him. Cause I could never share my affection with him. He would not eat my food.

I cooked every day for two weeks and we cozied together in my steamy kitchen sipping, guzzling wine and sopping up stew and the last moments together with our bread. They were my family and I loved them. I have not lost them but now we are on four different continents and it is just not the same. One is married. One bought a house, one is still in China and I am teaching in Colombia. I have not found a new family to replace them and that place is still open in my heart ready to be filled. I want to feed people. I want to have a family to love, nurture and feed.
For now I just feed myself. Where is my family? Who will I feed?