My mom cooks very well; she can make a sumptuous meal out of some vegetables. It would actually taste like a meat curry. Despite that, as kids and such brats we were, would crib away demanding for visible meat in our plates. Then my mom in all her diplomacy would say that love was one of the ingredients put into the food. And therefore we were not supposed to complain.
It took us time to discipline ourselves. But today, when I’m invited for a meal by my friends, or my friend’s parents, the food always taste good. Not that it isn’t cooked tasty. But over the years, my mom’s words of wisdom over our dinning table has conditioned my mind that indeed “love” has gone into making that food.
After filling my stomach, I make sure I do not fail to fill my mouth with words of appreciation for the efforts and consideration. Cooking and feeding someone is a very loving and generous act, and must always be appreciated. And after all, it could be me cooking for someone next, and I wouldn’t want people to complain and not be grateful.
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