My mother cooks

Late, and writing anyway.

A wedding. Three courses I could not face, a table of people who noticed, and a very kind waiter who boxed it up without saying a word.

Starters as a main course, permanently. No explanation offered, none requested.

My mother cooks. That is how she says it. So I eat what I can, slowly, and I say thank you, and we manage. It is not a problem to be solved.

Small step. Next.