Comfort Food

... for the SOUL

Every once in a while, my husband will randomly look at me or one of the kids and declare, “One day the kids from the neighborhood carried my mother’s groceries all the way home. You know why? It was outta respect.”

Back in the days when Dan was working on our old house, I would often head up to my parents’ house for the weekend. Alone at first, then with one kid, then with both. Our children would get quality grandparent time, I would often do school work, and Dan would have nobody impeding his laser focus on furring out the walls or whatever it was that he said he was doing. In the evenings, however, he needed entertainment to accompany his frozen pizza and beer, before he collapsed into bed for the night.

That entertainment was Goodfellas. Over, and over, and over again, Dan watched Goodfellas when we were away. My mom couldn’t believe it. “How can he watch the same movie every time?!” she’d say, rolling her eyes.

Of course, this is the same woman that rolled the same eyes at me when I was young, reading Charlotte’s Web for the 14th time, or Harriet the Spy for the 9th. The same woman who could not understand why my brother always rented either The Karate Kid or Rocky IV when we went to Video Update (RIP). My mother does not find joy or succor from repeat viewings or readings of content, which has always made me feel a little sorry for her. (Less so when she mocked me for it.)

I feel about rereading and rewatching my favorites the same way I feel about Tater Tot Hotdish: I know that even though the elation of the first experience with it is unmatchable, I will still find the remnants of what I loved, and because I am familiar with the ingredients I will not be challenged. Comfort food should be simple and lack surprise. It is a known quantity that calms and soothes.

I encountered an issue with my art-based comfort food a few years ago, however: not all stories stand the test of time. First, I was shocked to discover that Friends hasn’t necessarily aged well. There is a lot of homophobia and slut-shaming, and don’t even get me started on “Fat Monica.” Then, more horrifically, I discovered that my go-to favorite book — we are talking about an annual read since my sophomore year of college — was written by an alleged child molester. Finally, the author of The Wizard of Oz was exposed as a proponent of the extermination of Native Americans. Uff da.

For a while, I held a debate with myself… and with Facebook, with whom I shared my dismay over the destruction of my beloveds. Can the artist be separated from their art? It doesn’t feel that way with, say, Cosby. Not for me anyway. But what about a painter, or an author, whose face you do not see? Some of it comes down to economics: if I own the art already, or can borrow it for free, I’m not supporting a fall from grace with my hard-earned money. On the other hand, how is the art itself changed — tarnished — by the actions of its creator?

For my part, I have plenty of non-problematic familiarity to consume. The Emily of New Moon and Anne of Green Gables books seem to be safe, as L.M. Montgomery seems to have been a badass feminist. A League of Their Own has been reinforced by the creation of the incredible (and decidedly more representative) series. Buffy the Vampire Slayer has held up so well that these two amazing women made a podcast about it.

The truth is, we all have our comforts: be they objects, experiences, people, entertainment, or literal food. As long as none of them is harmful or dangerous, we should respect each other’s go-to loves.

After all, I still watch Friends.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie