Once, last year when I was pregnant, my husband and I had Chipotle for dinner. He ate his whole burrito. I ate half of mine. I put mine in a container in the fridge with a note that said, “Do not eat this burrito. If you eat it, you will be stealing your baby’s food.”
In the same vein, my friend Colleen is one of the most generous people I know. She lives in community at a Catholic farm in West Virginia, where she, her husband and a handful of other year-rounders play host to hundreds of volunteers every year. She is a master at cooking food for a crowd. And, sometimes, she puts her name on her food.
So, what is it about certain foods that turn normally mild-mannered women into petulant 3-year-olds, yelling, “Mine!” while clinging to a beloved box of truffles? Well, it’s not a character flaw. It is simply a sense that certain foods and beverages deserve special treatment and savoring. I don’t want my husband scarfing my burrito at 11pm when he could just as easily make a peanut butter sandwich. Similarly, volunteer coming across some tangerine Spritzers in the fridge would probably not recognize that they were imported from the nearest Trader Joe’s, which is four hours away. Which brings me to the tea.
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