As I’ve said in a few different blogs, I’m a good cook and I love cooking for Cadi as a part of our protocol and ritual. I pride myself on providing interesting, nourishing food that is often made “from scratch”. It’s a useful service for her, and I know she appreciates it especially because she often works late evening shifts.
Cadi is also a pretty good cook herself, she just doesn’t enjoy it as much as me. She makes an excellent veggie chilli, and an even better Thai green curry. Oh, and the larb!!
But recently we’ve gotten into a pattern of Cadi making me hot dogs when we’re both feeling in need of security and comfort, or when we want to feel like we’re doing something special. It’s so simple. We just heat up the ‘dogs, buy those cheap, white pappy buns that are almost sweet, and fry up some onions. We’ve even started buying American mustard in the silly yellow squeezy bottles.
It speaks of a loving Mama doing her best to provide for her little one, even when she’s busy. A Mama that is canny enough to make a cheap meal into something much more exciting, so that no-one even realises that it’s cheap. It’s Mama-magic. I love leaning in to the sense of wonder, the sense that Cadi is the strong provider of our home. I love whispering, “Thank you mama” as she passes it to me, eating it with my fingers, with relish. Getting mustard on my chin. I love that we are trying to create a space that is both safe and whimsical for each other, that power exchange facilitates that.
Having hot dogs seems like an event, somehow. Like we’ve been out on bonfire night, walking in the cold somewhere, or caught up with some errands. When I was a child, my imagination was always caught by that scene in The Railway Children when they arrive at their new home and make an ersatz dinner by candlelight. In my fiction writing I write about food a lot. I love the way that food is a way of showing care and connection.