Actually, Typepad is my therapist, but let’s just pretend Dr. Typepad has a comfy red couch upon which I’m reclining. Stiffly, like spaghetti just into the pot. Take it away, Doc:
Him: So, what brings you here today?
Me: I think I’m in love with my farmer.
Him: Interesting. You know, I’ve been looking for a good CSA…
Me: He’s mine, all mine. Find your own farmer. He’s sold out, anyway. HA!
Him: Okay, well, let’s get right to it, then. What’s your relationship with this farmer?
Me: He grows our vegetables and I give him money. For the vegetables. Nothing else. And then I cook them. Then, I eat them. That’s really it. There’s nothing dirty going on if that’s what you’re getting at. I mean, there’s actual dirt on the vegetables. From the fields. You have to wash them off…
Him: All right, settle down. So, you see this farmer, you see him, and then what happens?
Me: I get hungry.
Him: Uh-huh. And what does your husband think about this?
Husband: I’m okay with it. She's been cooking A LOT.
Me: (to Husband) Could you stop looking over my shoulder when I’m on the clock?
(Husband goes back to his own special brand of therapy: fighting heroic quests in an imaginary troll world.)
Me: (to the doctor) You were saying.
Him: Do you suppose it’s possible that you’re transferring your feelings toward the food you eat onto the person responsible for growing it?
Me: I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.
Him: Well, if you’ve never had a face attached to your food before, it’s understandable that you might make certain…associations.
Me: I can see your lips moving, but…
Him: Look at it this way: What is food to you?
Him: And how do you define love?
Him: Do you see how you just came full circle there?
Me: You’re not making any goddamned sense.
Oh, well. No breakthroughs today. You can’t expect success overnight.