Bonding with mom over comfort foods

My mom happened to be in town, visiting my home near Washington, D.C., for the annual profusion of cherry blossoms, and this refrain followed us everywhere we went. It made me smile — through gritted teeth. It’s true that she and I share the same blue eyes, the same genial Midwestern countenance. We even have the same unruly swirl of hair at the nape of the neck. But on this visit, we looked more alike than ever: For the first time, we were nearly the same size.

My mother has been overweight for as long as I can remember, not obese but a matronly plump. In the rural town where I grew up, most moms looked like she did: farm wives with substantial bosoms and hips. At church picnics, she and her friends commiserated, seemingly surprised to find themselves in these large, soft bodies, so different from the lithe girls they’d once been. “It’s so hard after you’ve had children,” my mother would say, patting her belly, and the others would nod, glancing at us kids meaningfully and, I thought, a bit accusingly.