Crikey, it's Tuesday night already, and I barely noticed the start of the week. Ever have days like that? You turn around and you've lost about half a week.
And what a week, I cannot be the only one struggling with Lent. 'Lent' is presumably something 'on loan' from the devil, which is why he spends his time trying to drag it from our fingers. I'm not saying what my faults are; that would just be exhibitionism, but I cannot be the only one to realise just how disfunctional a human being I am when the chips are down (or not on the plate, as the case may be). Hey ho. On we struggle eh? Only another five weeks or exposure to our real selves. Then we will pull the warm blanket of myth up over our heads again and go back to a condition of self congratulation. Oops, did I say that out loud? The older I get, the more that seems to be happening.
Fortunately, food is also about love, isn't it? Or at least that is what I feel about the stuff. What an odd thing that our relationship to food is now dictated by forces other than the human, whereas if we still thought of it in terms of love, there are lots of things we would avoid. There's more chance of becoming a glutton in front of a TV dinner than at a feast where you have plenty of other distractions. And if you pour love into your cooking, nourishment becomes nurture, in one of those subtle transformations which show the proximity of spirit and flesh.
If you think I'm babbling tonight, you'd be right. It was the busiest day of the week so far, and I had a pile of correspondence to field this evening. Fortunately, I ate well, albeit alone. But I tried to do it with love. Love and appetite are as different as chewing slowly and gulping like a gannet. How odd we have to wait for Lent to come around to be reminded of the fact.