on my love language

I used to believe it was physical touch. Words of affirmation maybe.

But I think I realized nearly a year ago that food was my true love language.

On a Saturday night—with a mess of wild unwashed hair and wearing only an oversized and too thin tank top—I feel sexiest with my chef’s knife, what has essentially become an extension of my limb, slicing through a peach the size of both my fists.

The farmer’s market was foreplay.
The juice on the cutting board, union.

Decanting a bottle of red wine hours before it will be poured for Sunday night dinner is perhaps the greatest display of kindness a person can demonstrate.

The preparation of that dinner, the greatest of affection.

The sharing of the meal, a bond of trust.

The second bottle…words we can’t and won’t say but are the most sincere we have ever spoken.

Dishes are intimacy

And that is everything you can know about me, and it is the truest and most necessary thing.

One thought on “on my love language

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