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Aged white cheddar and broccoli soup with chorizo

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The Gourmand Mom

(Read caption) Intensely cheesy and extra comforting, serve this soup on a chilly day for a delicious dinner.

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I am one of those parents who flood their Facebook page with pictures of my children. Yes, I’m that person. Everyone knows at least one these people. For my friends, it’s me. My Facebook wall reads like most parents’ baby books … full of photos, videos, firsts, favorites, and funny anecdotes. (They’re funny to me, at least.) And my profile pictures are mostly pictures of my kids, rather than of myself.

I have heard comments such as You are not your kids, in regards to this issue. And it’s true. I am my own person. I am not my kids … at least not completely. But the truth is, my children are a huge part of me. They are the very best representation of me. They are my finest creation and my life’s grandest purpose. If I do nothing else of importance during the rest of my life, I can rest easy in knowing that I grew, loved, and nurtured these precious little people.

Why wouldn’t I associate part of my identity with that of my children? Aren’t we all little bits of every person and every event we’ve experienced. And don’t we all continue to change as our lives change courses? Why wouldn’t my children shape me in the same way that I shape them? Why wouldn’t my children be irreversibly intertwined with my identity?

At this point in my life, perhaps for always and forever, my children are the center of my world. They are my passion and my motivation. They are at least as much a part of me as my love of cooking, my fear of failure, or my passion for bacon.

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