While I am pretty much addicted to coffee, it's tea I turn to when I need comfort. Good old Lipton tea with milk and sugar, or Snapple herbal peach tea, or raspberry tea with a slice of lemon and some honey. I think sometimes I get more comfort from holding the hot mug in my hands than actually drinking the tea. I needed the comfort at lunch today and the tea did the trick. I'm sure actually eating something helped me, too, as I was spazzing out with a low blood sugar episode. Food is a great source of comfort to me. Yes, I know how bad that is. I know I should not eat to make myself feel better when I'm sulking about something. But when you’re Italian, food in and of itself is a comfort thing. Sad? Eat. Happy? Eat. It’s raining? Eat. All the worlds’ problems are solved with food. And while grandma’s pasta did give me lots of comfort on Sundays, there’s one comfort food that will always make me feel like everything that has gone wrong will be better, that everything that sucks will be good again, that all I need after this is some feety pajamas, a pillow, a blanket and Wonderful World of Disney on the tv. Mashed Potatoes. These were a special meal thing. Mom didn’t make them too often because they were a pain in the ass. Peeling enough potatoes to feed five people who all wanted second helpings is a bitch. Trust me, I know. When I was about six, mom realized I was old enough to work the peeler. One of those old fashioned metal things. That bastard would twist and turn as you used it. Wet potato in one hand. Sharp, resistant peeler in the other. Six year old hands. What the hell was mom thinking? It took me about fifteen minutes to peel one potato. And I cut three of my knuckles in the process. Don’t ask. Just know that I’m kind of uncoordinated. So I had to start peeling the potatoes at 4:00 if we wanted to eat by the time dad got home at seven. This was slave labor. Sweatshop type work. I hated it more than anything. But I got to hang out in the kitchen with mom and watch Dark Shadows, and that ruled. And then we’d eventually sit down to dinner and let me tell you, there’s something extra good about mashed potatoes that you bled for. Plus, there’s the fun factor of mashed potatoes. The castle and moat! You build your potatoes into this huge glob that in your mind looks like a castle (screw Richard Dreyfuss, we were building with our spuds way before he did his alien thing) and then use your spoon to carve a moat around. Fill the moat with gravy. Then dump a spoonful of corn all around the moat and pretend that the kernels are drowning peasants. Make the appropriate “help me” noises. Then wait for your mom or dad to tell you to stop playing with your food and pretend you don’t see dad shaping his mashed potatoes into a hand giving the middle finger to your mother. That was last Thanksgiving, by the way. It's time for a cup of tea (I'd make mashed potatoes, but I am too tired to peel).

Charlie's my homie. Good working buddy. The three of us had a really great day. :) Charlie is part of the family now - Jacob and I keep saying that we don't think we could have found a more perfect dog for us. love love love!! (please excuse my ridiculous gushing... believe me, I realize I've lost my mind.) ;)