Comfort Food by Sarosh Nandwani

When I call you my banana nut muffin and you call me your chicken noodle soup, I don’t know how else to describe the way I love you, except to say I’m glad I can keep you warm. I’m crazy about you – bananas, if you will. Crumbling under your gaze; you look at me, smile, and your eyes widen even further, as though you have just watched a firework explode for the first time. Your kiss face looks like a fish, and all I can think is damn, for the love of God, take me underwater and serve me on a platter.

You always smell like Old Spice deodorant when we cuddle, so now anytime I pass someone wearing Old Spice, I have to remind myself it would definitely be inappropriate to curl up like steam under their chins. My atoms stir the nearer I get to you, and I can feel my body craving the warmth of yours, in all my anemic, cold-fingered glory. There is nothing safer than being your little spoon.

Food used to be a nuisance – to be ingested but not necessarily enjoyed. I never apologize to myself for letting me go hungry. But every time you call me a food, I learn how to be more okay feeding myself. I relearn craving. I buy the cookies. I’ve never loved eating more than when I am with you.

I don’t write about love often because I don’t know how to explain it, and I know it’s cheesy but you make it easier to describe, so that when someone asks, “What does love feel like?” I can say, “Comfort food.”


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