My daughter throws all the emphasis on the word “food,” so it sounds like it’s made up of two syllables and not one.  “Fooo-ooodd.”

She’s home from college, bored, and with nothing to do except do her laundry and constantly check the items in the refrigerator, staring at them as if waiting for the show to begin.  Or better yet, checking every half hour in case something may have changed in there, in the dark.

How this brings me back to my childhood.  My father, like every father since him, wanted to create a see-through door.  “Close the door!” he would holler.  “You’re letting all the cold air out.”  How he must be loving this conversation!

But the thing is, there IS food in the house.  I look at her, my college student, with the A average, on the honor roll, and wonder why she doesn’t see the box of waffle mix as food, or the jar of peanut butter and loaf of bread as food.  What happened to logical thinking where food was concerned?  We have all the  makings for some very nice food, but that all seems lost on her.  I don’t get it.

I say, “Emily, what if you could create a wish list of the food you’d like to have me buy for your visits,” I ask very sweetly, blinking a lot to remind her how sweet I’m being.

“I don’t KNOW,” she responds, as if I asked the most goofiest question ever.

“Oh,” I reply.  “You complain there is no food in the house, yet there is,” I say, pointing like a game show hostess at the pantry, and the refrigerator door.  “And when I ask what you’d like me to have in the house, you don’t know.”

“You got it,” she replies, half-heartedly, already losing interest and returning her gaze to a cable TV show called Gossip Girl where everyone seems to eat out in restaurants.

Just then, Dad comes in from his food shopping expedition.  He unpacks some frozen foods, and one of them is a box of ice cream sandwiches.

My daughter jumps up from the couch and grabs the box.  “Finally, some FOOO-OODD.”

I don’t get it.