Archive for June, 2012

Attack of the Obnoxiously Hormonal Woman!!

I can just see the vintage movie poster of myself, 20 feet tall, red-eyed, scary, and possibly exuding a green misty-like substance from my mutant endocrine system out of my abnormally lizard-like pores.  Beware, good citizens:  Pregzilla is on the prowl!

It’s what I felt like yesterday after hysterically throwing myself behind a shrub during a fit of uncontrollable sobbing over nothing more or less than an uneaten salad.  Okay, it was a little more than that, but it really got me thinking about several things in my life (including whether or not I should institutionalize myself until the end of November).

One of these things is something I really think we’re lacking in our society these days: the concept of food and fellowship.  Not everyone may have nearly  the same over-the-top reaction to these situations as I do, but neither do I, really, under normal circumstances.  What  got me yesterday was how a two-and-a-half-hour family picnic put on by my church turned into a forty-five-minute eat and run fest, sans fellowship, but including a lot of rushing around to fold up tables and stack chairs in order to get the hell out of there and onto better things.  Behind that shrub, I really started to ponder the dynamics of it all, while, of course, dusting the leaves off my skirt and wiping brown crap from my tear-stained face.  What is up with this rush-rush society of ours, and why do we cringe away so heartily from a good long moment of delightful, earnest conversation between bites of honest-to-goodness food (real food, may I also add)?

I just don’t get it.  I remember those days with so much joy – sitting around the dining room table on a lazy Sunday afternoon with a big pan of baked rigatoni in the middle, a glass of wine sitting idly by, the big band music playing gingerly in the background so as not to disturb the lilt of  ten separate conversations going on between the handful of people scattered between our kitchen and living room.  I remember how long that day would play out, with no apparent plans for the future.  There was no good reason to get together – no birthday or holiday – other than for the very act of getting together – the simple enjoyment of it all.

I really got my panties in a bunch yesterday – believe me I know it! – but I feel like it was for a good reason (other than the five separate hormones coursing through my bloodstream and taking over my once-lucid brain). When the instructions on the flyer told us to bring a dish from our “country of origin” I went with my grandfather Ermino’s native Sicily. When I discovered that hardly anybody else did the same it really got me.  Sure, people have their lives and responsibilities, and I get that, but there’s something genuinely special about sharing oneself with those around them, and that’s what I wanted to do for my church family.  I made a lot of nasty comments back there behind the shrub (on the back lawn of the convent, no less) about  “stupid Catholic weirdos and their obsession with quickly exiting any activity no matter how sparse the parking lot is” that no one heard ’cause they had all gone home already, but what I really wanted to do was cry to my long-gone dad about how much things have changed and if there was any way to get those days back again.  The fact that it was the first time I’d been able to cook in the kitchen since the end of February also had something to do with it.  It was like when I first found out about my food allergies and the initial devastation I felt when I thought I’d never be able to cook like I once did.  Cooking is like life for me.  In so many ways it’s how I create and function and feel.  It’s also how I love.  I brought my now-husband Tim a homemade pork chop to his door long before I ever attempted to kiss the man.  It’s the hormones, but it’s not just the hormones.

I think this world would be loads less stressful if we just took the time to sit down and fellowship together.  It would keep emotionally unhinged pregnant women like me out from under the shrubbery and might not ensure, but at least give hope to the notion that peace begins in the middle of the place setting between your knife and fork.

Hormonally yours,

Cellina – The Hopeful Foodie

PS: I think the best comment came from our pastoral associate (aka: awesome chick), Lisa, who, in her unmistakable Irish brogue, advised me not to cry over spilled aoli.  I have to say that I laughed hysterically over that one.


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