August and I shared a salmon fillet one night while Todd was in London, then the next day I made a salmon salad out of the leftovers. I just flaked up the fish, then mixed it with mayo, peas and capers. Ate it in a pita. It was so satisfying, so domestic. It made me feel like I was home.

I am weirdly obsessed with comfort foods lately, but it's not the typical comfort food. It's what I ate growing up. Mayo-based tuna salad. Chicken soup. Hot dogs.

For four days now, I've been pursuing this elusive warm, yummy glow that I felt was just beyond my reach. Then tonight I sat down with my son and my husband for August's first fish sticks, served with baked fries from the freezer and microwaved veggies. And there it was. It didn't have anything to do with good cooking, or even, in this case, homemade food. No chocolate was involved, or lemon zest, or balsamic vinegar. The only salt that made it sparkle wasn't fleur de sel, but regular kosher that my 2-year-old had sprinkled too liberally over the cauliflower, carrots and broccoli.