Did you know my grandma had bad feet? She did. And she worked in the Gottschalk’s handbag department for years, standing on those throbbing feet. She’d come home just aching beyond belief and would tell me she hoped I never hurt this way.
I do. When I am on my feet too long, I come to understand why people call their feet dogs. Doing these big cooks lands me with some real dogs. After the first full day of cooking, I was walking as though I were a grandma: bowed legs, hunched back and mincing my way across the room. By the end of cooking on the second day, I was done.
We got the place all clean—our goal was to leave no evidence of the food hiding in our freezer so that when Daddy asked what is for dinner, we could fake him out and say there wasn’t anything to eat. After the house was spic-and-span, the kids and I snuggled with our hot cocoa and cappuccino to watch TV. I didn’t think anything of it when my girl asked me to pause the show—we never get through a viewing without a few interruptions. 
But when she returned with a bottle of lotion and told me she was going to rub my feet…. Is that something? She rubbed my feet for a solid 45 minutes! I kept telling her she could stop anytime, but she said she wanted me to feel better and knew this would help.
I couldn’t have gotten better care at the most expensive spa out there and my heart is filled to overflowing.
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