The other day, as we were eating cheese steaks at Jersey Mike’s, my oldest son made an announcement.
“Cheese steaks are my comfort food.”
“Your what?” I asked.
“You know,” he said. “My comfort food, what I want to eat to just forget everything and feel better.” He took a large bite of his mushroom cheese steak. “It’s really good.”
My wife and I exchanged glances.
“You’re twelve,” I said. “Where on earth did you hear about comfort food?”