Comfort Food.
I don’t always write about food. I write about memories. Hopes and dreams. Sometimes I dabble (emphasis on dabble) in poetry. I’ve got a fiction novel in pieces. A non-fiction idea. Food is just one of my favorite topics, it’s not the only topic.
Lately, I haven’t been writing about food at all, as visitors to this blog can attest. A good friend passed away suddenly a month ago, and since then I’ve found every time I’ve sat down to write about food, it seems like an empty exercise. I mean, who needs to read another description of a great meal I had. Or a half-ass pie I made. Really? Does it matter? Someone I love is gone. My friend Michael Veazey, one of the kindest, most caring people I ever knew has left us. Another gossipy account of which restaurant is threatening to close its doors seems like such unimportant minutiae. Like utter bullshit.
