I miss my Mommy. Not the Mom of my teens and adulthood, the Mother I couldn’t seem to understand until it was too late. No, I want my Mommy. Especially when I’m sick, and I imagine myself a little girl again, curled up on her lap. That just makes everything better.

As a food lover, I miss her cooking intensely; fried chicken, mashed potatoes, meat loaf, pork chops, pot roast… Mac and cheese. She made macaroni and cheese from scratch, with cheddar cheese and milk and butter and pepper. I want that today, so bad. Can’t find a comparable recipe, tho.

Not surprising that I was a chunky monkey until high school when I decided to stop eating more from revolt and inward demons than any peer pressure. Nobody cooks like my Momma, which is what I called her. Even now the word scores a direct hit on my heart.

Like other stupid children I almost blamed her for cooking those delicious meals that made me fat. As if I were the only person she cooked for. As if I couldn’t stop eating.

I told you I never wanted to grow up. And unfortunately I don’t think I ever really did. I wish I had it to do over again.

Not blood of my blood, but heart of my heart. Momma.