Thanks, deb. I wasn't sure if that one was working.

Ouch, Juliana. The, I don't know, atmosphere of that one just hurts.

That's how it happens, sometimes.

God. Yes. And sometimes we don't notice and can't do a damned thing to make it stop.

This was supposed to be about macaroni & cheese, damn it. But it wanted to be this, instead:

* * * * * *

Comfort. Food.

The phrase, of course, is a lie. Food offers me no comfort; it never really has. Nothing human hands can cook has the capacity to comfort me when my heart is bruised or my mind refuses to be still. What I need instead are those hands themselves, those arms holding me close.

Failing that, I turn yet again to the pantry. It's always there. But that's all that food can offer me – its presence. It's there, it's constant, mine for the asking. If it were a person, that truly would be comfort. Instead, it's just a poor substitute that ultimately leaves me empty.

Finally got it down on "paper."

Comfort Food

She looked at the grocery bags, her nerves calm. Inside one bag could be found sirloin tips to braise with onions and peppers, noodles to be coated with butter and chives, chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. She stared at the seven bags; they had cost her four hundred dollars. It was worth it for the comfort she could find in them.

Later that night, feeling nervous, she stood over the toilet bowl for the fourth time. All the groceries were gone, nothing left in which to take comfort--only an empty soul and an empty wallet.

It's interesting, isn't it, how we can get down to the blood and darkness in anything? There's always something deeper to be explored. These last two were both really strong, Steph & Sail. And I can definitely relate to yours, Steph. It is about that availability, and control, and constancy.

Mine ended up sharper than I intended. I can never tell. Sometimes I really bleed over them and I temper it somehow, and sometimes I just don't. But I never know what it's going to be until it's out. Anyway, now that I got the bile out, I have a sweet one brewing, too. But I'll sleep on it. Try for it this weekend.

I relate a lot more to Steph's, myself. But since she wrote it, I had to find something else! A very close friend of mine is bulimic and I can remember being mesmerized by her stories of excess. She told me, once, that a bulimic's esophogus can burst from the erosion done by vomiting and I used to have nightmares of walking into the bathroom and finding her in a pool of blood. I was one of the first people she ever admitted this to and I think sometimes I would have rather lived in ignorance. But, yes, it is amazing how something that is intended to nourish our bodies gets so much symbolism attached to it and it's actually lower on Maslow's hierarchy of needs than love is. I guess when you feel unloved you can't go higher on the list to meet that need so you have to go lower and make it fit.

Sail, I think that yours is just a logical extension of mine, really. The idea that it isn't *really* comfort, or that what small comfort exists is so, so, SO fleeting.

what small comfort exists is so, so, SO fleeting.

Exactly.

Beg

The vet says there is a mass, most likely cancer. We'll know for sure next week. It's already eaten its way into her jaw. She's lost 10 pounds already, a quarter of her weight, and her ribs are painfully visible through her still healthy golden brown coat.

We will cook her chicken and mix it with rice and a little garlic. We'll fill her bowl with the People food she was trained not to beg for. We will give her all the soft treats she wants—cheese and bacon and beef flavored. We will take her to the Tropicool and get her a small vanilla softserve in a cup even if she is too weak to do the traditional run through the park beforehand. We will scratch her ears and tell her she is a good girl for finishing her food and hope we have time left to spoil her with it.

lisah. You made me cry with that on.