I know, I know. You're most likely looking at that title and rolling your eyes a bit. Don't be mistaken. I enjoy both receiving and writing love letters. I still cry when I watch The Notebook. I'm not a monster. But, in my house sometimes food says it best.
Isn't it crazy how time just seems to run away? January turns into June. Here we are in August, and I'm sure that if I blink it will be time to drink eggnog and craft gingerbread houses. When was the last holiday season that didn't "creep up on you?" I feel like I'm always perpetually surprised with where we are in a year. Time flies. That's totally a cliche for a reason.
This notion is both unsettling and comforting. I find myself sinking into a very predictable rhythm. Wake up. Work. Dinner. Sleep. Repeat. My husband falls into his own rhythm. His includes a morning and evening bus commute. Mine includes rolling out of bed and into my home office all while trying to remember to take a shower by 3pm. They're different rhythms, but they are constant. I catch myself on occasion actively noticing time is passing quickly. That I fall asleep on the couch before I have the time to look my husband in the eye and say, "Hey you. I love you. Madly".
Lucky for me, I married a man who loves food as much as I love to make it. Food to me has always been an expression of love. This is how I was raised. I grew up with Hawaiian and Italian grandparents. In times of celebration, we feed you. In times of grief, we feed you. You come over to our house, we feed you. It's my way of nourishing you—of caring for you. My love language lives somewhere between kalua pork and a silky chocolate torte.
So when I feel time running away from me, and when I feel the rhythm of a really difficult work week begin to ware on us both, I know it's time to slow things down and turn on the oven. My love letters aren't always scripted. Sometimes they are big pots of meatballs (the same recipe I made the night we got engaged), jars of granola, or a batch of chocolate chip cookies. A soulful pot of soup or a batch of sweet banana scones might replace a sonnet. For me it's the same sentiment.
And when my husband comes home to a house that smells like slow roasted pork he gets it. He knows I'm simply slowing down and saying, "Hey you. I love you. Madly."
Do you use food to say "I love you"? What kind of special love letters are you cooking up in your kitchen?
(Image credits: So...Let's Hang Out ; Gina Eykemans)