The B.F.G

I am starting to REALLY believe that Roald Dahl may have been MY grandfather in some parallel universe.  I've always been partial to the friendly giants (pretty sure I even dated one once) and although I love the fruit, I still can't help but to contemplate the infinite world contained within a normal sized peach before biting into it. When I was a child, I was certain I was going to be a writer.  At my young age, inspiration mostly came from a few childhood heroes such as Shel Silverstein (I was sure to be eaten at any moment by a Boa Constrictor), Madeline L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time changed my life at age ten...I couldn't look at a piece of string the same ever again).  Not to mention a slew of others...


But of course, there was always the wonderful Mr. Dahl who took me on wild adventures and allowed me to make sense of what was happening in my world in a way that was fantastical but completely believable.


It came as no surprise when a few years ago, I cracked open a whimsically illustrated and wistfully written book by his granddaughter, Sophie Dahl. OF COURSE my beloved childhood author had offspring!  And OF COURSE she was creating interesting things that I love!  I have to admit, though, I was only a dial tone away from asking her personally, "What did it feel like when you tiptoed around in my head?  Did you sneak in while I was sleeping?"  I felt comforted by the words of another that felt so kindred in spirit, then instantly chalked her up to the Sophia Coppola's of the world.  I was simultaneously inspired and discouraged. I came to the defeating conclusion that the only way to get anywhere in this world is to have a last name rich in the industry and deep in artistic accolades. (p.s. since then, this has been a wavering declaration...)


I kept her book under the glass on my coffee table as a reminder that, although I went to school for art... my heart still beat loudly for words and maybe someday my love for writing and oodles of doodles and ramblings COULD turn into something SOMEDAY.  She would make a few visits in my world every once and awhile.   I remember seeing her a few times in magazines as a very ghastly version of herself and I began to turn a blind eye as I watched her ease down the slippery slope of self image as imposed by the magazine and fashion industry.  My heart sank.  I saw a gorgeous, strong, talented woman too slender for her own frame and anyone's aspiring good.  I wanted to use the same fictional phone I was going to use before, but this time,  I wanted to order her a juicy steak and some garlic mashed potatoes and meet her at a table in the woods with a canopy of twinkle lights and reminisce about our childhood as if she were my own long lost sister.  Alas, no phone call was made and I forgot about my empathy for a stranger just as quickly as the imaginary dial tone ended.


Until a few days ago, when I came across a freshly heroic version of Sophie Dahl.  She has written a new book called,


Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights: Recipes for Every Season, Mood, and Appetite

Hurrah, Miss Dahl! Even the title had me AND my belly doing backflips for joy! I could already imagine how wonderful this gem of a book would be. I was silently gleaming with motherly pride at the delectable outcome of the assumedly arduous journey that had lead her to it.  I ordered it immediately.


 Today, Billy brought the unopened Amazon box with him as he picked me up from my two day visit with mom and grandma Pheba.  With his own excitement, he helped me open the box in the car before we pulled away and I quickly devoured what words I could. I instantly giggled at the uncanny resemblance of our past and the close proximity it was to my recent visit with family that always stirs up interesting memories.  She spoke of her chubby childhood and how her grandmother couldn't understand why she wanted to become a vegetarian in her adolescence.  Billy watched me from the drivers seat with his usual curiosity, wondering what it could be that I had ordered this time.  Before I could share a few words of what it was or why... he looked at the cover, brought it closer to him to see better and laughed as he said, "Is that you?".


I looked at him in utter disbelief as I sometimes do when I forget just how much he gets me, and how often he doesn't know the profundity of his own words. I rested the book in my lap and he grabbed my now empty hand as if to officially say, "Hi baby. I missed you.  Welcome home."  And never have I felt so much so.