Comfort Food

There are those things that comfort us from our childhood. For me it was an IBM paper box and a yellow blanket. For kiddos growing up in Eastern Europe I don’t know exactly what that would be but today I got a glimpse. Milk Soup.
Yes, Milk Soup is mostly what it sounds like Milk. Warm. Like soup. With pasta. Broken not whole. And the staple – Sugar. I was waiting for the cheese, the salt, the pepper. “Nu uhnnnn” I was told. D scooped out a bowl for me and made me sit at the table. Soft, mushy, pasta in milk with sugar. I had quite a preconceived notion.
I watched D as she ate hers. Slowly savoring the flavor. I tasted mine after, of course, smelling it carefully. WOW it was like a box and a blanket and grilled cheese and tomato soup comfort all wrapped up into one! I asked her if this is what the children in Latvia like to eat and explained what we called “comfort food”.  A huge smile crossed her face and she nodded.
Today was another super Africa hot day. Not really able to do much, I read and she listened to her music. She would come looking for food and I would feed her. We had a lazy rhythm going . I practiced my guitar and sang a bit and she listened from the stairs quietly watching. We did laundry and put the sheets back on her bed together. She rolled her eyes when the dogs were unruly with me and giggled at my frustration with them.
My sister came over this evening and D stayed in the kitchen. She smiled and shook Jean’s hand! That was a first. She hasn’t even wanted to make eye contact when being introduced. We all sat and drank tea and talked mostly about family stuff. We had promised D pizza so we all went over to Rosanna’s of Bethlehem to have a late night pizza. Phil joined us after work and it was lovely. She seemed relaxed and ate almost 2 slices of pizza. It appears she enjoys the crust very much.
I want milk soup in my life. I want comfort and warmth for myself and for those I love and even for those I don’t love. Warmth and comfort from broken noodles. Man, some days I am the broken noodle. But I am reminded of my brokenness and what God does in my life to mix it all up and get something good. I could never have imagined that hosting an orphan could be like this. It doesn’t always look appetizing and I often smell first … but add one teenage orphan and two crazy adults and stir in the warmth and sweetness of His love… voila! Milk Soup.
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