I Love Feeders
A fact about myself that often surprises people – considering I come from an Italian heritage – is that I hate cooking. What’s even more surprising is that my very Italian mother hates cooking too. People who react in this way can be accused of being, at best, derivative and succumbing to stereotypical tropes, and at worst, racist.
I have never been offended by the assumption that, as an Italian woman, I not only love to cook but am also a great cook. Or that my culinary tastes are so discerning – given my possession of a palate accustomed to exquisite flavours – that only the most authentic concoctions could satisfy me.
The truth is, though, I’ll eat anything – especially if somebody else prepares it.
Bland, bad, or basic, I don’t mind. For me, the fact that someone else has taken the trouble to fill my belly is the ultimate act of nurturing and who doesn’t love to be nurtured!?
I should clarify that I do know HOW to cook. My resistance to it is not born of my lack of ability. On the contrary, I feel very confident in the kitchen and have no qualms with attempting a new recipe or even tweaking one; usually I’m forced to do this when I have been over zealous during the grocery shop – an activity I adore – and filled my trolley with goodies that I ultimately have to do something with just as they are on the cusp of turning bad. So, it’s not the not-knowing that’s the problem.
Cooking is a tedious enterprise – it takes planning and forward thinking, time and effort, both before and after the event. A totality of hours that far outnumbers the amount of time it takes to consume the end result. This blows my mind. To me, cooking is a chore. I am therefore moved when someone else makes the sacrifice of providing me nourishment.
Plus, I love eating. Even more so, I love the feeling of satiated contentment that comes with a full stomach. This is where I differ from my mother who preferred the lightheaded high of an empty (and flat) tummy – no doubt this distaste for eating informed her attitudes towards cooking. Somewhere along the line I inherited the latter while skipping the former.
People who love to cook are odd creatures to me. Whether they’re preparing simple meals or intricate, multi-portioned banquets, what I enjoy most (second to actually eating) is watching how fluid and self-assured they are. Cooks who are visibly revelling in the process are most intriguing; they glow with excitement. And the pleasure remains when they present you with their efforts and sit down with you to relish the fruits of their labour - the delight amplified by conversation and laughter.
The most loveable thing about feeders is the obvious gusto they get from other people’s enjoyment of their food, the satisfaction seemingly so addictive that they will prepare additional portions for the sole purpose of passing these on. How thrilling it is to receive a call to say there are extra chicken schnitzel pieces waiting for me if I want them.
IF?!?! I’ll be there in five minutes!
How exciting that drive-by collection of a little aluminium foil parcel of goodness, handed through the passenger window while temporarily pulled up in the driveway (I’m looking at you Angela and Mark!).
As a perennially single woman, perhaps the reason I love feeders so much is that it’s an opportunity to connect and engage with someone who is showing how much they care by providing me with sustenance. They want me to be well. How utterly warm, charming, and wonderful that is!