Ketchup on Scrambled Eggs

I want my mommy.

I heat the griddle and melt a little butter on it. Bread goes in the toaster, two eggs get cracked into the butter. I cook them until they’re halfway to over-easy then poke them with a wooden spoon to break the yolks. I give them a stir, cook them a bit more, then slip them onto the plate while they’re still a little runny. My scrambled eggs get a sprinkle of salt and a good squirt of ketchup. The toast gets butter.

Anthony Bourdain would cringe and cross me off his list of potential dining companions.

But this is comfort food for me. It takes me back to the safety and protection I had as a child. When I’m overwhelmed, on the edge of tears, or feeling lost or alone, I self-soothe with foods from those early days.

Right up there with scrambled eggs and ketchup are black tea with brown sugar and milk, leftover chicken dipped into the mayonnaise jar, and spaghetti with butter and sprinkle cheese. These are foods I reach for when I need to feel safe.

Normally I eat spicy, over-easy eggs on toast with cheese melted on it and a huge serving of steamed broccoli. Sometimes I eat eggs in French toast, an omelet, or egg salad. Breakfast can also be peanut butter toast, yogurt and fruit, or homemade granola. But when I’m reaching for the ketchup after that first cup of coffee, I’m feeling vulnerable.

About to self-soothe with scrambled eggs and ketchup.

It’s the same with spaghetti. I never eat it unless I need to, and I only ever put butter and sprinkle cheese on it, never sauce.

Comfort food isn’t always food, though, and I don’t always consciously seek it out.

Several years ago, I bought a piece of cotton fabric at a secondhand store. It was ugly but large enough to make a shirt that I wouldn’t mind ruining in the garden. I went pattern shopping with a little notebook and a pencil. For about an hour, I flipped through the books and wrote down pattern numbers then rifled through the drawers to find something simple to make.

After I got home and made the ugliest shirt ever, I realized I only wanted to look at patterns, because that was something I enjoyed doing with my mother. She always carried a small notebook and golf pencil to jot down pattern numbers. I needed the comfort of pattern shopping that day, because I was at the tail end of a cold and wanted to be taken care of. It was never about the shirt, so I cut it up and made it into rags.

Ironically, I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother. I blocked most of my childhood because of early trauma. I remember very little, but I draw on those few things that must have made me feel safe, protected, and nurtured.

My mother played classical piano. I don’t remember her playing, but after she died, my aunt told me she was very accomplished. There was a piano in the living room, and my brother and I took lessons when we were young, but I don’t recall her channeling Rachmaninoff at the keyboard.

She must have, though, because listening to piano music is a self-soothing mechanism for me now. If you’ve been to my house, chances are you’ve heard piano music in the background. It doesn’t matter if it’s classical, jazz, or modern. The sound of the keys keeps me grounded.

Sometimes comfort is more complex.

Over the summer, I was having some health issues. From the emergency room, I texted a friend explaining what I was going through and ended with I want my mommy. On another day, I was visiting with a friend who was struggling more than I was. After I told her my story, I said, I want my mommy. With tears welling up, she said, I understand. I thought we’d both start crying.

I was needing something I never got as a child, but I still related that need to my mother. It’s a bittersweet grief and yearning and a fantasy that the ideal mother will provide comfort. I had stability, safety, and protection as a child, but not warm and fuzzy nurturing to feel nostalgic about.

There wasn’t enough ketchup or pattern books to fix my situation this summer. A meal of roasted chicken, mac and cheese, and strawberry ice cream would have been a warm lap and a cuddle, but I had to settle for a good cry.

Comfort food in all its forms is self-care. Whether it’s ketchup on scrambled eggs, music, or tears, indulge yourself.

Maybe Anthony Bourdain would have forgiven me if he knew I don’t like my steak well-done.