Without a Name

Mom knows exactly what to feed me to get me in a good mood. Cheese--it's crucial. Honestly, anything she cooks, if topped with cheese will taste heavenly. But regardless of the time of day, or the mood I may be in, she knows that the meal that will get me out of virtually every slump needs more than cheese, but sausage, too. Oh goodness. She will brown that sausage, mix it with some frighteningly fattening fried hash browns, and smother the artery-clogging dish with shredded cheese. Oh gosh. It's lovely. When I take a bite, I suddenly become this sentimental, "touchy-feely", lets-go-save-the-dolphins, "Have I told you how much I love you?" type of person simply because the food is so good. It's bizarre, but pretty wonderful. However, I feel cheated. This dish, this powerful kindness-inducing casserole, doesn't have a name. I've never known what to call it, and Mom has never known the name. In second grade I tried to name it, simply for clarification purposes, but the name didn't stick. It's terrible. I feel cheated. Surely my comfort food should have a title? But I guess a meal that procures such inexpressible emotions probably would struggle to maintain an ordinary name. Hmm. I'm not satisfied with that last statement. Oh well. Someday, maybe my daughter will be more clever than me, and will discover a better fitting name. Til then, I'll just have to slum through life, calling it "that cheesy,sausage, hash brown dish". Sheesh. Sometimes life is so hard.