In the old southern kitchen, with its pineapple stencils and cornflower blue cabinets, I sit eating a ham and cheese sandwich at the table. I had just finished an hour long crying jag (I was around 9 or 10) and the effort had left me ravenous. As I watched my mom clearing dishes from the drying rack I told her, "Food always tastes better after you've cried."
I saw her back stiffen. "Please don't ever, ever say that. Ever again."