Trying to keep up with the amount of food being inhaled around here. Um. Wow!
Cookies, cakes, and pie are gone the next day. It's six gallons of milk every week (we need a cow). I've never bought butter, cheese, or yogurt in such quantities as I do now, and the eggs? Dozens. I bought a box of apples, thinking I would share with my friends - you know, give some to other families because that was just too many for us. People? I didn't share one apple. Not a single one.
Maybe I should just come to terms with the fact that I'm running a mini restaurant, here? If I think on that scale, I may not be so surprised every time the pot is empty.
But that's what they do, boys eat. And eat. And EAT.
Because, in the rocky patches of growing up, their sustenance can quite literally be their sustenance. Chunky noodles in warm broth set an awful lot straight. Hot buttered bread settles so much more than the growling stomach. Ice cream is wink and a smile.
And in the smooth places? It's a celebration to eat a crisp apple, or an apple crisp with cold cream drizzled on top. Smoked meat is an adventure just waiting, and crackers are for backpacks and mountaintops.
They belly-up to the table three times a day, these guys (not to mention the in-betweens), needing food, conversation, and connection. Around the piles of mashed potatoes and the roast beef, between the bites of coleslaw and braised chicken, with the spoonsful of chowder, we nourish them - their minds and hearts, their imaginations and aspirations, and, yes, their bellies, too, bringing a wholesome ground to their world.
Eat away, boys.
I'll be in the kitchen, making more.
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