(Contributed by Alli)
I like food. Wait, nope, I love food. Is Zaxby’s considered a love language? I’m asking for a friend, of course. I think I can make a strong case that while food may not be considered a formal love language that the popular “5 Love Languages” book talks about, it can be classified a language of love. Hear me out and I think you’ll agree.
It’s a hot and humid summer day in Alabama and I think I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. Mind you, in Alabama it gets hot enough to make the devil himself throw up his hands in surrender to the heavy air. The only thing that moves faster than cold molasses during the summer months are the mosquitoes.
I remember helping my Dad do farm things and we took a break to go to the store, a break that was always welcome because five minutes breathing inside an air-conditioned building was better than none. Back then I would always get a Coke and Golden Flake Dill Pickle flavored chips. It was the best nourishment to a tired kid. To this day I can’t taste dill pickle flavoring and not think of jumping into my Dad’s red Chevrolet 2500 diesel truck and hearing him say “just sit on top of everything” as I climbed in the passenger seat to go get that middle-of-the-day snack.
Not much has changed, except sometimes I pay for the snacks now, and my palate has switched to Diet Coke and granola bars. But every now and then I’ll spring for the dill pickle chips just because. See, my Dad taking me to the store to get chips and a Coke is a form of love (and potentially creating an addiction to Coca-Cola products), and I sometimes think that it meant more than saying “I love you”; then again, I’m not a mushy person.
Moving forward about ten years, I find myself in college in the same town where my grandparents live. Some college freshman would view that as a negative. Au Contraire, my ignorant counterparts. I have two words for you: Free. Food.
Some weeknights I would stay with them and breakfast was always my favorite because I would wake up and hear the news channel that my grandad was watching along with the clanging of dishes in the sink. My breakfast of choice was toast and jelly. It sounds simple, I know, but it’s not.
First, the bread my grandmother, Mimi, always bought was Sunbeam. Sunbeam is the top-of-the-line, the crème de la crème of the bread aisle in Big Star or Piggly Wiggly.
Second, Mimi had a toaster oven, not a simple toaster. This ensured that the bread was perfectly dark golden on both sides, not too toasted at the bottom, like the kind traditional toasters produce.
Third, Mimi had the Country Crock spreadable butter. If you are the toast connoisseur that I claim to be, you know that regular butter causes the toast to rip–such a rookie move.
Fourth and finally, Mimi’s apple jelly was homemade. She would always have the bread bag opened on the counter by the toaster oven with the tray set out. Next to the bread was the butter spread and the jar (likely an old glass mayonnaise jar from the 1970’s) of that glorious light golden yellow jelly. I’m serious, If I were on death row, that would be my final meal.
But once again, that was a way she showed love, by setting my favorite things out so that I could have my favorite breakfast before I started my day. I don’t know if I ever told her how much I appreciated that small effort, but I sure hope I did. If I didn’t, this is me doing so now. God bless her apple jelly.
My other grandmother, whom we called “Mama Hennie”, much to her dismay because she really wanted us to call her “Mama Helen” but that just never quite stuck, loved to make cakes for Easter, and Christmas, and any random Saturday. They weren’t “from scratch” but that’s okay, because sometimes you just can’t beat a Duncan Hines white cake mix cake. Here’s the thing though, we never left them white. Her cakes were three layers with each layer being a different neon color. She fostered my creativity because she would also provide jelly beans or chocolate candies or sprinkles to decorate the cake with after we covered it in canned frosting (neon colored, of course). Those cakes were sure not pretty, but they were fun. Once again, love was shown by allowing a 7-year-old to go on a baking rampage. I make fun of those cakes now, but I am proud of them, and I am proud of that memory.
I could keep going. From eating beignets with my Mama in Fairhope, to getting Mexican food after church with my sister, to getting Zaxby’s with my boyfriend every Monday, food is a language of love. When you cook or bake for someone you are specifically taking time to do something nice for someone you care about. Even if it’s just a restaurant meal, you are choosing to spend time with that person; after all, time is love too. And in the South, our food normally takes a while to cook or bake (examples include barbeque or a pound cake), so you’re really killing two birds with one stone, spending time with the person and actually feeding them.
Do you get it now? Food is not only nourishment for your physical body, it’s another way to say “I care about you.” And showing that care for friends and family is something that we all could do a little more of.
