DAY EIGHT.

I love food.

My husband is not shy about it. He tells people all the time – when we first started dating, he was amazed because if we went to out to eat at a proper restaurant, there was no salad lightly supplemented with anemic grilled chicken across the table. I ordered a full meal and ate every bite. Steak. Giant burgers. Ribs. With whatever potato the restaurant would conjure up for me. He was drawn by the smiling girl who stood out in the crowd. He stayed for the girl who could ice skate and who polished off dinner (and dessert) with joy.

I have absolutely no standards. I love a creative, chef-designed, miniscule-portioned foodie experience. I love McDonald’s. I think the only food I truly rejected was the White Castle cheeseburger experience in Hopkins, Minnesota, in the late 90s. From what I understand, no one really blamed me for that one.

Throughout my years shepherding a family across all corners, I cooked. Every day. I invented ways to transform ordinary foods into car-friendly versions for backseat eating on the way to practice. I shoveled full hot meals into takeaway containers and drove kids and dinner over to Triple Play, where we pulled up four chairs and snuck in family dinners without a hot dog in sight (because we ate plenty of those, too). But I didn’t take very many culinary risks. The sheer caloric need of growing children, then teenagers, prevented me from “trying” nearly as much as I would like – I needed slam dunks!

Then those teenagers drove off to college, one after the other. Suddenly, it was whole new world. If I tried something, and it didn’t land, the fallout was a couple of PB&Js for two low maintenance (and low caloric-need) adults. I have hugely enjoyed this period of cooking. The fact that it has coincided with a decided decline in quality (both food and service) of the average dining-out experience increases its value even more. It’s a thing of joy to contemplate each week’s menu – what repeat favorites to include, what interesting recipes to try.

But I’ll be honest – cold, gray, rainy weather brings me right back to the familiar. Comfort food is a real thing. Any fan of the wonderful film Ratatouille will agree. And, after several stunning days of false spring, during which I had the top back on the Bronco everywhere I went to soak up some of my beloved sun, yesterday’s front dropped us squarely back to winter. So tonight, it’s one of my favorite recipes to bring warmth, comfort, heft, satiation. Italian Sausage Tortellini soup, with crusty baguettes to mop up the leftover broth.

I discovered this recipe many years ago, when we were all bringing soup for teacher appreciation at my kids’ first elementary school. I didn’t grow up with soup unless you count Campbell’s, but I wanted to deliver something homemade, special. Somewhere on the still-limited internet, I came across a recipe that I tailored based on some things I had on hand.

It was a HIT. Especially with male staff, who actually sought me out to tell me that it felt like a real meal. So, I say bless the lovely person who put the basis of that recipe on the worldwide web so many years ago, because I can’t even count the times I’ve made that soup since. It remains my father’s favorite thing I make (and was his requested meal for his 80th birthday in November).

I hope everyone has a homerun, works-every-time, ultimate-comfort-food recipe. Like Remy, the Little Chef in Ratatouille. Just in case someone doesn’t, I recommend giving this one a try.