I do this thing where I will cook for anyone who supplies me ingredients, well, most anyone. I am fairly indiscriminate about the whole thing because cooking brings me happiness, but that’s not the only reason I do it.

There is usually a group of guys I cook for because they ask the most, I call them my boys. They wait anxiously while I whip something together. I do it often enough I know exactly what each one prefers and likes. This one hates food that is wet, that one has to have pepperoni in everything, this one wants mayonnaise in most things he eats. I know them all and when I hand them their meal something inside of me sighs with completeness. Content.

It makes me feel good. I enjoy cooking because it makes me happy and I enjoy having people around I can take care of, so to speak. I’ve always thought that when I retire I will own a little restaurant or cafe where I will be a sassy waitress that harasses her customers. I do that now and it feels amazing, it’s not work, it’s pleasurable. In fact, last night I was resting comfortably in bed when I was asked to make breakfast burritos. 75 minutes later I was handing out 18 burritos, customized to each one of my boys and it felt so good I almost cried about it.

I even gave one to the shithead, every group has one…but he’s our shithead, with a full belly.

I suppose what I’m getting at is I feel human when I’m cooking for others. Finding humanity in a place like this, I’ll take that any day.

In here are people. People who are just as human as you or I. Why not love a little more?

With Love

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