Being Fed By Mum

I just got back from my first proper lunch out in absolutely ages, and it was a very good one indeed. A couple of days ago, on the family Skype call, my parents suggested meeting them for lunch today up in Stratford. Fan of the Olympic park that I am, I thought it was a great idea: we could meet up, have a nice walk together, and generally catch up.

By and large, then, that is what we did. I met my parents, plus my aunt Toula, on the Olympic park, having a coffee before enjoying a delicious lunch at a Greek restaurant. I didn’t think it would really be noteworthy here, but I just realised that it was the first meal mum fed me in a long time. At home, of course, I feed myself using my neater Eater; and if that falls short Serkan often feeds me. Yet, between living apart, the pandemic and everything else, I don’t think my mum had fed me a meal like that in years.

When I was growing up, of course, mum helped me eat every meal, especially when I was really young. She thus knows how to do it. These days though, living on my own, I don’t share many meals with my parents. The strange, noteworthy thing is, mum still feeds me better than anyone else, even after all this time apart. She still has a technique or rhythm which somehow makes eating really really easy; easier even than using my neater eater. This afternoon, eating some outstanding greek food, I felt like my ten year old self again, lovingly being fed by his mum as he listened to his parents talk. It’s probably something which is impossible to explain to anyone who has never experienced it, but which boils down to the unbreakable connection between a mother and the son she brought up. It had been far too long since that had last happened, and I resolved to make it happen again soon.

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