It's 9AM
One of my favorite things to do is cook.
I do it for people I love.
I know where it came from.
Sunday dinners at my grandmother's house.
She cooked special meals for Sunday after church.
Sometimes, we would make it an early supper, because someone was going to be late.
If that was the case, she would make a fried SPAM sandwich to tide us over.
A couple of crispy slices of SPAM, a slice of American cheese on white bread with mayo and a drizzle of yellow mustard still brings tears to my eyes.
I don't eat it often now.
Maybe not as much as I should.
Some Sundays, we would have the whole family there.
My uncle, his wife and kids. My dad, step-mom and three kids. My aunt and her two children.
Sometimes her husband joined us, if he wasn't working graveyard shifts.
I watched my aunt make a plate for her husband whenever he was with us.
And asked about it once.
When he got in from work, she made his plate and he ate breakfast with the kids before they went to school.
Then he slept.
When he got up, she made his plate so he could eat dinner with them as a family.
Then he went to work with the lunch she made for him.
He said he could count on one hand the number of times he fixed his own plate.
Mamaw said my aunt didn't learn that from her.
I can't recall where she said she learned to do it.
But that was her job, taking care of her husband and children, which included making his plate.
They were together for forty plus years.
One day, he was hopping away from a wasp nest and tripped and banged his head on the concrete.
He got up, said he was fine, and passed out.
They took him to the hospital for an x-ray. He had a brain bleed from a trip and fall, and died a few days later.
His way of showing my aunt how much he loved her was taking care of her financially.
Her way of showing love for him were acts of service.
I never saw my dad make a plate for anyone. Never watched my uncle do it, nor others.
But it's something I do.
No matter which relationship I've been in, married, dating or just a casual dinner and overnight.
I've cooked and made the plate.
I can argue it's because I want to show the set up.
And I have been yelled at before because that simple thing can be construed as trying to control how much a person eats.
Yet I always fall back on making the plate.
I cook the food, I make the plate, I serve it, I clear it, then I wash the dishes.
I have for my children for twenty years.
I have for the relationship I'm in now for five.
I even make my own plate.
Is that an act of love for myself?!
Or a hold out, cause no one has made a plate for me in I don't remember how long.
My love language is touch. The other's are, gifts, words, acts of service, and time.
What is yours?
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