In my family, as in many families, food is love. My mother loves my father with deviled eggs. My father loves my mother by making reservations. My brother learned to barbecue to save us from my father’s charred interpretation of love.

There are advantages to this. People’s behavior can disappoint, but macaroni and cheese is always good. Chocolate cake tastes better than apologies on the tongue. My family can do Thanksgiving because it speaks our language.

But. As I pass along family traditions, I’d rather not pass along the family thighs. Our hearts should be full of love and not fatty deposits. I need to love my family with salad, with fresh fruit, with a nice cold glass of water.

Heck, I could branch out and love my family with a walk along the beach or a bike ride.

Maybe I could even just tell them I love them and skip the candy. Sweet.