I might have told you about this more than once but perhaps for this entry, it is important that I tell you once more. So, here it goes.
At one point, I decided to get in my car at the early portion of a weekend morning. The sky was a quiet shade of gray. The cold air from the new season crept in to prove that autumn was in the rearview. And there was a cold time ahead of me without the promise of warmth.

More than the taste of a great burger and better than the typical hot dog memories of potato salad and slices of watermelon; and more than this are the details of times from long ago. These are the occasions that took place in little towns and backyard barbecues.
This is where moments such as the 4th of July celebrations took place. This is where youth was as innocent as our young towns where, as kids, we prepared for a nighttime event of flashes and colorful bursts of rockets and explosions of sparkles that boomed across the sky. 

The Old Man was an eater for sure. He would work hard and eat everything that was on his plate. You could tell when my Father was enjoying his food. This was clear from the look upon his face.
His upper lip would sweat; not to mention his look of intensity, as if his meal could somehow wipe away the day behind him. As I say this, I say this with the memory of being a young boy. The Old Man was always working. He was out of the house by sunrise and home after sunset. I understood that he had to work to keep a roof over our heads and yes, I admired my Father as my very first hero. 

I say this in full disclosure and openly; yet admittedly, there was a moderate form of intimidation and respectful fear. 
The Old Man worked a hard job and sometimes, in all fairness; The Old Man took his work home with him. He was often tired and impatient and by the time he came home, I was already in my pajamas and ready for bed. I would try to wait up for him. I wanted to see him eat. I wanted to see the look on his face and admire him. 

What I am about to share is both personal and heartfelt. I suppose that what I am about to share with you is also part of why I see things the way I do. Also, this is where and how I learned about the birth of my taste buds and the meaningfulness of lunchtime and meals after a hard day’s work.
Of course, not everyone likes the same thing and not everyone comes from the same background which is why I like to try new meals from different people. I admit to being adventurous and trying foods from different places. I can say that I have tried things that were not for me. I can say that I have tasted things without knowing what they were and, in fairness, had I known I might not have tried them in the first place. And yes, I’ve eaten things that sound terrible but tasted great.

I wonder if people really know. I mean, do people really know what it means to have a good meal? I wonder how many people truly understand the experience and the rituals behind fine dining or good food. Then again, I suppose that culture and background is everything and that yes, my version of a great meal might not reach the same flavor to someone else. But ah, I can say this without any doubt: Food is love.
It’s not just the food itself. It’s the meal. It’s the manner in which it’s prepared and how the food is shared. This can happen anywhere too or even out of a brown paper bag. A shared meal is perhaps the most comforting, giving and charitable expression that we can share with each other. And again, it’s not just the menu or the meal but or how the plates are passed around the table. It’s not always about money either or expensive dishes. 
On the contrary, there are meals that can be had for an affordable rate. The attention to detail, the power held in the ingredients and the flavors can be a perfectly connecting detail.