Sunday lunch

Somebody asked what my secret was and I froze completely. Still working out what I want to say to that.

A long, warm, argumentative entry about food as love.

Starters as a main course, permanently. No explanation offered, none requested.

Sunday lunch at my grandmother's. Small plate, long afternoon, no drama, and she was happy.

A wedding. Three courses I could not face, a table of people who noticed, and a very kind waiter who boxed it up without saying a word.

My mother cooks. That is how she says it. So I eat what I can, slowly, and I say thank you, and we manage. It is not a problem to be solved.

Buonanotte.