good and plenty.

I was just starting to see the light at the end of the chess pie.

We went to see Josh's dad on Christmas Eve. We came home with a new ski helmet (for him), a coffee maker (for me), a chess pie, one fourth of a chocolate pound cake, a gallon-sized bag of vegetable stew, and some cajun chicken (for us and about eight other people, I guess). By last Friday, we had eaten the cake and more than half of the pie. Josh ate the chicken, and I froze the stew. I did not complain about excess food. Instead, I enjoyed my pie with ice cream and looked forward to when I could simply reheat that soup instead of cooking something.

We went up there again to go skiing this weekend. We did not go skiing at all, but instead came home with two cases of soda, one fourth of a lemon meringue pie and half a pound cake. I never thought the day would come when I would want someone to stop giving me desserts. But the day is here, mark it on your calendars.

Since last year, I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life with Josh. Just as he will have to deal with really loud hiccups, I will have to rearrange the contents of my fridge after each visit with his step-mom.

I know that all that food is made with pure, uncut love. I know that it is delicious. I know that once I have kids, it will not be a struggle to eat a whole pie before it goes bad. I know all of that and yet every time I have to bring another box of food into the house, I feel just a little bit of resentment. I continue to be the most ungrateful person in the whole world. No need to mark your calendars on that one.

Just in case dreading the gift of free and delicious food were not enough evidence of insanity, let me tell you this: it threatens my womanhood. Every time we are handed another bag or plate full of food, I feel like I am being told that I do not feed my man well enough. Let me tell you, buddy, my man eats good and plenty. He gets dinner made-from-scratch every single night. Sure, sometimes it's reheated made-from-scratch from the night before, but it's still good.

Those are the kinds of ridiculous thoughts you have when you worked all week to eat a chess pie and you are handed half a pound cake.

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