My father spent the 1970s selling hunger to America: soda, waffles, chips, anything that promised satisfaction in 30 seconds flat. He also weighed 450 pounds and was always on a new diet with me as his little diet coach. All his best material came from our kitchen table: “L’eggo my Eggo,” “Once You Pop, You Can’t Stop,” “Coke Is It” — the lines he’d toss out between bites.
My grandma Beauty did the opposite. She fed me comfort, one recipe at a time, until I believed emotions had a flavor. My dad could sell the American consumer comfort, but he couldn’t quite give that same safety to the girl sitting across from him. Between my dad, who treated cravings like a religion, and my grandmother, who treated food like therapy, I grew up thinking connection was something you could taste before you could name it.
So when I met my Bumble date years later after my divorce, it wasn’t fireworks. It was something quieter. A sense memory. A familiar click in the body before the mind catches up.
The first meal we ever shared was at Dan Tana’s: rare steak and shrimp swimming in oil and garlic. He ordered quickly, confidently, passing plates back and forth like this was something we’d always done. Somewhere in that meal, I felt that oyster-like disbelief when something simple tastes better than expected, and you pretend not to notice because the surprise feels too intimate to say out loud.
After that night, we slipped into a rhythm. We went out to dinner a lot. Before I could even open a menu, he’d tell the waiter, “Sauce on the side, she eats like a celebrity,” making me feel adored, not demanding.
The dishes were always exquisite. Slow-roasted bone marrow, branzino laced with herbs, the kind of flavors that made us lean in and feed each other. He’d study my face and say, “Love it or hate it?,” shooting me a warm smirk.
On quieter dates, we watched movies in bed, talked about our kids, anything except for whatever was forming between us. On the nights I slept over, he’d bring me matcha lattes in the morning casually like it was no big deal, and every single time, I felt like I’d won an Academy Award.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” I’d exclaim.
And he’d shake his head, amused. “You’re too easy to please.”
But what he didn’t realize was remembering that I liked only a splash of milk and an extra shot of matcha fed a hunger in me I didn’t know I longed for.
Our banter was fun, constant and warm. Everything worked except for when a question leaned into the future. That’s when something tightened, a brief, instinctual clam-closing and then loosening again just as fast. But I kept going because the present was good. Because we laughed a lot. Because the world felt softer when I was with him.
Then one Sunday evening, I asked, “What are you doing for the Jewish holidays?” He gave a quick, unreadable flicker. It was gone before I could interpret it. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t need to. We were both leaving for our own family week. When I returned excited to see him and celebrate a big work milestone I’d helped him prepare for, I got “the text.” Careful. Polite. And at the end, a line that blew a hole through my chest.
“I don’t see a romantic future with you.”
I read it again and again until my body revolted. A wave of heat shot through me. I wanted to scream but I just stood there frozen, unable to breathe, like someone had cracked open my chest and scooped the air out.
Suddenly, I wasn’t a grown-up woman living in Hollywood. I wasn’t a mother, not a nutritionist, not someone who has taken care of people for years.
I was 9. I was in Chicago. It was 1975. I was in my grandma’s kitchen, the place I loved most in the world. The only place I ever remember feeling safe. My fingers were gripping her apron. The smell of dill wafting through the air. Her soup was bubbling. Nourishment, comfort, stability in the form of broth and steady hands. Then my mother’s voice sliced through it: “Dawn, get in the car.”
As I was pushed into the station wagon, there were boxes everywhere. Clio Awards, stacks of Playboy magazines with my dad’s byline, and when my mother slid in after me, she bumped into my dad’s cigarette and the ashes ignited the map — burning a hole straight through the Midwest. My stomach was in knots. I kept reaching my hand toward my grandmother.
“Don’t make me go.”
My mom, irritated, honked the horn, and my dad stepped on the gas.
Standing in my kitchen decades later, looking at the text message, the same feeling of nausea washed over me. The ground shifted. My friends, trying to support me, started texting me. “Don’t you dare text him.”
But I did.
“Hi.”
He responded immediately. We met for Japanese that night, and without trying, we fell right back into our rhythm over Santa Barbara uni and lamb chops cooked exactly the way we like them, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, the kind of dish that cracks when your knife hits it and then gives way like warm silk. We were not awkward. We were not mad. We were not resolved. We were two people who kept finding each other at a table, even when everything else was uncertain.
Then, somewhere between courses, he looked up and said, “You remind me of my mother.”
The words hit something in me I couldn’t name. Not a wound, an internal flinch. He always told me his mother was unpredictable. Warm one moment, stormy the next. Comforting and chaotic in the same breath. I was none of those things. And I knew instantly that whatever he meant was tangled and that my warmth might feel like comfort to him, but also, unconsciously, like danger. That being cared for and being overwhelmed lived very close together in his body.
I didn’t take it personally. I took it as information. Maybe I felt familiar to him in a way that carried both safety and alarm. A green light and a red light at the same intersection. And the strangest thing was, in that same moment, he reminded me of my father, a man who could charm a room, feed America slogans that defined a generation, win awards and still feel shaky where it mattered most — with me.
Two grown-ups sitting across a table, mirroring childhood patterns that neither of us fully understood.
Later, when he drove me home, he dropped something heavy: his story, not mine to tell. The kind of truth that shifts the room without explaining the entire plot.
Sitting there in his car, I realized it was never just the two of us. We both brought our ghosts, and they probably showed up before we even opened our menus. Maybe that’s the real story. You can share the same cravings and still have to adjust the salt and heat as each new combination of flavors come together and unfold.
The author is a nutritionist who wrote the bestselling book, “My Fat Dad: A Memoir of Food, Love and Family, With Recipes.” Find her on Instagram: @DawnLerman.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event are on sale now at the Next Fun Thing.
This story originally appeared on LA Times
