Recently, I came across a discussion of comfort food on the Web and was forced to admit to myself that I had no idea what these people were talking about. The phrase conjured up no images for me, so obviously it had no meaning whatsoever. I looked for a definition on the usual sites, and most of them listed the usual suspects, which for Americans might include such dishes as baked apples, bread or rice pudding, brownies, chicken noodle soup, macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, casseroles, and fried chicken (most of these I shudder at). The emphasis did seem to be on foods that are inexpensive, uncomplicated, and easy to prepare.

The underlying assumption seems to be that comfort food is food that you enjoyed as a child, which now “evokes memories of being warm and cozy and cared for by someone special.” I suppose that might explain why I don’t really understand the concept: my mom was the world’s worst cook. We used to joke that she couldn’t even make instant coffee. Well, it’s not that she couldn’t — it’s that she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even boil water to make something instant because she didn’t want to be bothered. To tell the truth, I don’t think I ever cared, and I certainly don’t believe that everyone ought to enjoy cooking. Some people do, and some people don’t; my mother didn’t, and perhaps for that reason I’m hard-pressed to come up with my own list of comfort food. The closest is probably cinnamon toast, which I made myself.