As I was growing up my family moved a lot because of my dad’s job. Even after I “grew up” and moved out of my parent’s home I have continued to move to strange new cities where I don’t know anyone. But no matter how far from home I am I have discovered that nothing makes you feel more comforted, less lonely, and more at home than comfort food. For me personally it is a mixture of food cooked by my Southern momma, the occasional summer lunch cooked by my papa, but mostly a combination of whatever happened to be in the pantry. I grew up on casseroles, boxed dinners, canned food, and generous amounts of love. My family always sat down at the properly set dinner table with the television off for every meal from the time I was born until I moved out of the house. No matter how hectic my life got through the troublesome teenage years I was always at home for dinner sitting around the table with my Dad, Mom, brother, and sister. While biologically my family only numbered five there were frequently more people at our table. My momma and papa never hesitated to extend an invitation to someone who needed a hot meal or even just needed company for the evening even if the meal we served was the last meal we had in the house. I can remember one winter we were snowed into our giant 1920’s drafty house in Kentucky with 13 inches of snow on the ground when one of my brother’s friends and his mother walked through the snow to get to the grocery store only to discover it was closed. As they walked back by our house they were invited in to warm themselves with blankets and board games and homemade, from scratch, hot cocoa made by my momma. Some meals were only boxed macaroni and cheese but to us it was a feast. We never knew we were “poor”. Every meal was served on a table with silverware (not real silverware, but we never knew), cloth napkins (hand stitched by my momma), we had to ask to pass everything instead of just reaching for it, and we frequently used our “good plates” (which looking back were probably $20 for a set at Wal-Mart). Yet sitting at that humble hand me down table we never knew. We were taught never to talk with our mouths full, always to use our napkins, never to use our fingers to scrape up food from our plate, and to never put our elbows on the table. To us we lived in a giant palace full of nooks and crannies and love. Above all it was full of love. To us the kitchen and dining room were the heart of our family. Not just holidays but everyday. One of us kids would set the table while another one poured the iced tea and one of us helped momma and papa finish getting dinner together and onto the table. To anyone else we lived in a broken down brick house that was drafty and empty, and completely out of date. To us it was paradise.
Dinner at the Lindsey household was never a short event. Even if there were no guests we would sit around and talk about how good dinner was, what had happened at school or work that day, what we were going to do the next day, or even talk about the MacGyver episode that had been on earlier that day.
After dinner may have been my favorite time. We would play board games, watch Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett, a family movie, play cards, do cross-stitch, or my favorite nights, reading poetry aloud from my mother’s worn copy of ‘One Hundred and One Famous Poems’. I can still remember sitting in the living room with everyone stitching, writing, and relaxing listening as we each took turns reading these poems. Even to this day I can recall the sheer emotion I felt and the tears I shed every time we read ‘The Highway Man’ by Alfred Noyes. The day my mom gave me my own copy of that book I remember thinking that I couldn’t wait for it to be well worn and read nightly to my future family.
While we never had a great amount of spending money we always made do. We had each other and that was what we needed to get through the day. Our clothes may have been second hand, we may have eaten boxes upon boxes of discounted macaroni and cheese, but we were happy and care free. And that is all anyone can ask for. To this day I have met very few if any people and families who are lucky enough to have the full and rich life I was fortunate to experience growing up. My only hope and wish is that someday I will have a family, biological or not, that I can share the richness, happiness, values, lessons that built character, and most of all boundless love with.
Thanks Momma, Papa, Josh, & Abby. I am who I am and a much better person because of everything you shared with me. The unspoken lessons I was taught by all of you have made me feel tough as nails, prepared for anything, happy, and most of all, loved. Loved unconditionally and completely. And in this world that sets me far above anyone else. Thank you. I love you guys. I can’t wait to see you in October. I am lucky, fortunate, and blessed to have been allowed to have the family I have. I love you. I honestly do.

 After that brief introduction we return to this week’s regularly scheduled rant, already in progress:

 I pay $3.85 every day for a skinny latte every day I work. Three dollars and eight five cents a DAY. That’s $19.25 a week. $1001 a year. On coffee. Why? I have fallen into the convenience of Starbucks. I have always been a staunch advocate against the impersonal mega power that is Starbucks. But it’s SO convenient. I discovered that I would rather go to Coinstar and get cash so I can pay ridiculous amounts of cash for something I can make at home instead and sleep an extra 10 minutes. I know 10 minutes seems like a long time to make a latte but you obviously haven’t seen me in the morning without my coffee. As a matter of fact, the first time Steve’s mom saw me in the morning without me making myself presentable, she laughed. Didn’t say a word. I walked in with my hair and makeup still done from the night before in Steve’s t-shirt and a pair of green shorts with shamrocks all over them. She looked at me and laughed. I literally look like I am doing the ‘Walk of Shame’ every day until I get that latte. Then suddenly I have the energy to brush my hair, take off my makeup from last night and put more on. Of course the humor in all of this is I am work by the time I finish the latte and have the energy to do these things. Maybe I should just buy an espresso machine to keep on my desk. I wonder if that can be considered a write-off?