I eat six or seven times a day. Sometimes eight, sometimes twelve.
I keep a jar of peanut butter in my glove box and a gallon of Edy’s cookie dough in the freezer at all times.
Food makes me happy. If I don’t get enough of it I turn as wicked as the witch of the West. My face even turns green. It’s not pretty.

I’m thankful for food with calories to feed my body and fuel my mind.

Even more, I am thankful for food that feeds my soul. Food that can’t be stored in Tupperware or shelved in a pantry.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the Fall when I stopped my car on the side of a hill. I had a flamingo pink scarf curled around my neck and a camel colored pea coat buttoned over my breast. The California sky dazzled blue as the rain washed winds of November ruffled the leaves of the trees and the locks of my hair. I walked up to a warm patch of grass, pulled off my pea coat and sat in the quiet of autumn’s beauty. Within this small moment I found sustenance outside of my glove box peanut butter and Edy’s ice cream. The sustenance of pea coats and pink scarves, cloudless blue skies, and the scent of rain left in the air after a thunderstorm. And the nourishment of sun washed winds, a warm grassy hill for sitting and five senses through which I can experience these details.

On a Monday in mid November I trekked up a hill in San Francisco with two of my best friends. We huffed and heaved our way up ‘telegraph hill’, a luscious walk through dewy green brush and sweet yellow wildflowers. With tired legs and tushes, we reached the top. I was breathless with awe. My heart just sort of stopped beating and everything in the world became more alive than I’d ever known. I was on top of the world. Jewels of Northern California sunlight glimmered along the soft bath of water in the bay below. I could taste the bitter wines and smell the grapes of the vineyards in the hills of wine country as they appeared in the North. With the Golden Gate bridge as our backdrop we pulled out cameras and snapped silly pictures dressed with girlish glee. We laughed and swapped swigs of bottled water like vagabonds with no desire to ever go home. We ate authentic Italian sandwiches picked up from “Molinari Delicatessen.” I chose ‘eggplant Parmesan’ with balls of mozzarella and sweet sundried tomatoes that tasted as good as a lover on a Saturday night.

I eat. I sleep. I shampoo my hair. I pop Advil when I get a headache. Because my body depends on it.
But I’m more than just a body.
I’m a mind, a heart and a soul with big imagination. They get hungry, too. I fail to feed them when I fail to live in the moment: the second of the minute in the hour in which I have been blessed with the ability to breathe and feel and delight in the details of everyday life. Whether it be in a pea coat on a patch of grass in autumn or on a hill in San Francisco with best friends and deli sandwiches, the richest foods aren’t always the foods I chew and swallow.
Because at the end of the day I’m more than a girl who eats six or seven times a day.

That moment on telegraph hill as tomato sauce dripped down my fingers and the last sparkles of West coast sun shimmered over the bay was a moment of divine nourishment. At peace like a hippy, I needed nothing that I didn’t have right then and there. It was spectacular.

I was full without having feasted with a full plate and fine china; rich without having a quarter in my pocket.

I was aware of my whole self; aware of and delighted to be a woman who hungers with much more than merely her flesh and her bones.