My sister put me in charge of cookies for Thanksgiving.
I haven't stopped making them since.
When I make cookies, I have this image that hovers around my brain: Oh! The kids will be so excited! And we'll enjoy cookies with milk after dinner! And the kids will sing about how I'm the best mom in the world! And we'll eat them and laugh and dance and be the cutest little family in the whole wide world (minus my John, which breaks my heart more than anyone could ever know).
But it never happens that way. If I don't end up eating half of the batter, I'll just eat them when they come out of the oven, piping hot, gooey, dripping, chocolaty mess that they are. Sometimes I'll shove a steaming hot cookie into my mouth, burn the roof of my mouth, curse myself, then shove another one in because I know I can cool it down with the remains of the first one.
And when the kids get home from school, there's no laughing and dancing and talking over cookies and milk! There's homework, and there are tears because someone didn't eat all their dinner, so they don't even get a treat, and there's bath time, and pajama time, and cleaning up after dinner, and books to read, and clothes to get out for school in the morning, and of course making sure I've spent ample time talking to each one of them about how their day was, and if something special or not-so-special happened to them that day.
My relationship with food has certainly evolved over the last two years, since being separated from my husband. I know I don't have to explain how hard it can be sometimes being a single parent with three children. And it certainly isn't easy for my husband either, being 1600 miles away from his family. But I had a revelation the last time my John was here: food has become the companion I lost in my John when we moved here without him.
On a typical night, after getting the kids into bed -- usually just before eight o'clock -- I empty the dishwasher then sit in front of the television. Once I realize I'm bored out of my mind, I waltz into the kitchen to see what yummy treats await. For the first month or so that I was here by myself, I made it a habit to not buy any extra-yummy snacks, simply for this reason. Of course that went out the window right after Halloween, when the kids ran out of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
So when I attack those cookies at the end of the day -- or any time of the day -- I'm not looking to fulfill my desire for something chocolaty and decadent. Most of the time I'm not even hungry! I'm looking at these cookies as my companion; something to lean into while I'm anticipating the long nights of homework and baths and crying and exhaustion. These cookies are sharing all that anxiety with me. We revel in it, and together, we thrive on it. I can't live without them, and they can't live without me.
But there's more: it's the least satisfying bit of food I consume.
And even after I've eaten three or four, I still go back for more. Not because I'm hungry for more, but because I'm hungry for that companionship, some sort of adult connection. And if I can't have an adult or my husband physically here to tread the waters of nighttime routines, I might as well treat myself to something special. Something sweet. Something rich. Something chocolaty and peanut buttery.
My John needs to get home soon. For the sake of my sanity. If I start talking to these cookies, I'm in serious trouble.
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