Day 221 of 365

I've never been one to ask for help. I imagine most people are that way. Too afraid, too embarrassed, too proud. Too concerned about trying to be independent.

I've tended to be independent. I left home at 16 and was in college by 17. And being married to someone with a disability who doesn't drive forced me to assume an even greater level of independence. I've been the one driving us everywhere despite ice, fog, and blizzards, and the only one who pumps gas. I've been the one who uses the drill and the saw every time they are needed. I've been the sole lawnmower fixer and weed eater repairer. I've been the house painter, the bill payer, the checkbook balancer, and the tax preparer. The tech support person.   Every "assembly required" thing in this house was put together by me, along with anything requiring tying whether it be a rope, a shoestring, or a dress tie. And 99.99% of the pictures taken over the last 28 years were taken by me.

Over the years, I've gotten my husband to do more things here and there without help. He now uses a can opener by himself. He's gotten a nice collection of clip on and zip up dress ties. Just last week he learned how to text, and this week I showed him how to pay bills.

Recovering from three surgeries in less than a year required me to finally start asking for help. Both my daughter and husband had to pitch in more than they'd ever had before. It was a welcome (and necessary) change for me. But since then, I've again been holding back on asking for help.

25 more Christmas stockings for Stockings for Soldiers. Independently. All by myself. I probably should have asked for help in getting to 80. I might just do that pretty soon.

Day 220 of 365

I'm not a big comfort food person. I didn't grow up on casseroles and I'm not into mac and cheese. I don't even remember too many of my meals growing up.

As I think back on my childhood, it had two parts. Pre-divorce and post-divorce. Up to 3rd grade and 4th grade and on.

My parents divorced when I was a kid. A few months before my eighth birthday, we packed up the house in San Jose and moved about 80 miles away to live with my grandparents. We left the old house behind and I left my old life behind. I have few memories of the pre-divorce years, and the memories I do have revolve around the pictures I have from back then. Mostly birthday parties. The only food memories are birthday cakes, grilled cheese sandwiches, and fried eggs. (I'm sure my mom cooked, I just don't remember it.)

I remember some foods from when we moved in with, then moved next door to, my grandparents. Those fried pies from earlier this week. Tacos. Okra. Homemade pizza with Little Smokies on them. Sourdough bread. And fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

I still use the same homemade pizza dough recipe and sometimes still use Little Smokies. Tacos occur frequently in our dinner menu. I still like good sourdough bread. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes? Probably the meal I remember that's the closest thing to comfort food. We make chicken here at home, but bake it instead of fry it. I still love mashed potatoes.

But I have another meal that feels like comfort food. I imagine it was in my childhood somewhere, yet I don't remember who made it (mom, grandma, or great-grandma?).

Chicken and dumplings. Nothing better on a cool fall day.