Comfort Food

The upscale deli by my work has a new line of quiches, made with various difficult emotions. I’m an anxious type and it’s been a stressful few weeks and I feel like accepting help in the form of quiche just makes sense for me. I browsed the many emotional quiche flavors — cheddar, bacon, & sadness; turkey, Swiss, & guilt; ham, Gruyere, & loneliness; mushroom, Gouda, & yearning. I made a selection, which, forgive me, I’m keeping private, and was led into a room I’d never noticed before where there were several booths for one.

A man appeared with a bottle of red wine. “You’re not on the wagon, are you?” he asked.

I shook my head and pushed my glass forward. “How does this work? Is it going to break me down and build me back up? Or is it logical, like digestion? Will it push the pain through me?” I asked.

The man wrinkled his nose. “What, do you have to know everything? Just let yourself experience it.”

He left and I sunk my fork into the quiche. Without giving too much away, I’d had a similar —though unemotional — quiche before and this did taste different, but not in a way I could describe. It was the feeling it gave me inside, a smoothing over, almost like a palette knife with a thick blob of oil paint sliding across a gessoed canvas. Drafts and cracks inside of me were sealing up. My tears tasted like they’d been steeped in herbs.

I got up and left the room. This was the first time I’d ever felt lighter after eating quiche. So, this was magic.

At the counter, a woman with smeared eyeliner and shaky hands stood in front of the quiches. “Do it,” I said as I went out the door, mended.