Both my parents left us three daughters in the cold clutch of Winter. Thus, the food that generously arrived on my eldest sister's kitchen counter did so warmly, containing multiple ingredients of Comfort. My folks, we are of the South. And we bear the heavy religious lineage of Southern Baptists. Statistics, in fact, testify that the faith of my peoples do Comfort Food best. Fellowship would not be complete without Food and may be even downright sacrilegious to not be enjoyed in tandem. No kidding, Purdue University researchers, in fact, crunched the numbers proving the calories Southern Baptists consume make them the heaviest of any Believers in the U.S. of A.

Not that I'm complaining. I ate willingly. Both times. Both times, two years apart, that hordes of Sunday School class members, deacon's wives and former pew mates, bore casseroles that summoned memories of growing up in the Seventies. Some of the ingredients had changed: asparagus swapped out for green beans but still swimming in soupy sauce, corn mushed into pudding-like texture and sweet-potato casseroles sporting a Paula Deen butter-laden ambiance heavenly encrusted with coconut and heavily sugared chopped pecans. (I think I could wallow in that stuff like a pig in mud.)

The offering that best soothed our hearts and warmed our bellies was the finely chopped garden-grown ingredients that simmered in a steaming stew, day-long. The bearers of this love-ladeled food were, like our father, octogenarians. She entered my sister's house slowly, maneuvering with a walker. Her husband with his cane, his spare hand warm from carrying the accompanying cornbread. They'd decided, he said, that this was what they'd do that day.

Indeed, I can track back my last ten pounds upon the 10 before, to Mother's funeral. It began there and I've proceeded to lose and gain that same 10 five times since. I, too, have done the math. Dang it.

Seriously, when one's heart is weary with a loved one's passing, there's something spiritually nourishing about the food concocted in someone eles's kitchen just for you. It may inflate your waistline by its sheer fat gram content, by the quantity of it spread out buffet style, by the taste-bud teasing choice of…oh, my, eight different selections of cakes and pie! But, it sure does feed one's soul to know that dear people, some of whom you don't even know but who knew and loved your Mother and Daddy, cared enough to offer up for you this kind, sweet, tasty gesture of fine, Southern Comfort Food.

Our smorgasbords of Southern funeral food were blessed. We sisters, spouses and boyfriend, both times dug in eagerly. I'll speak solely for myself here. For me, the evidence of the sweet comfort of Southern funeral food still remains. Very specifically around my midlife midriff. So, in my time of sorrow, I was duly comforted. Now, I raise my head up from the feeding trough and proclaim to the Almighty above: Amen! Now get me to the nearest Weight Watchers meeting. Already!

Photo: Mishelle Lane of Secret Agent Mama