the need to feed

My daughter is a vegetarian, with vegan tendencies. She has never asked me to cook vegetarian to accommodate her nor asked us not to eat meat when she's around. And I mean never.

But I do anyway. I don't mind cooking meatless (or even milk-less and butter-less) so that she can join us for meals. The satisfaction I get from preparing food for my children is ri-goddamn-diculous. It's traditional in a way I find intellectually annoying; it triggers all sorts of food-as-gift/comfort/love warning flags. Emotionally, however...few things resonate with my very core in the same way.

That said, when she went away for a long weekend retreat, I almost fell over myself getting to the grocery store. I made a beeline for the meat section, prostrated myself before the steak altar and bought two beautiful rib eyes. I also cooked all sorts of other dairy-laden food. An orgy of animal products.

When she got home I immediately began to itemize all the leftovers in the house that she couldn't eat. A thinly-veiled, knee-jerk confession/apology.

She just starts laughing at me. She tells me that I don't have to do this and if I don't stop she's going to keep paring down her diet until she's gluten-free (and god knows what else) and I. just. snap.

Goddammit I love that kid.