Most of my memories are associated with food. A pink cake at my grandmother’s house for my sixth birthday. Peas and noodles and hamburgers for dinner at our old house. Pizza with my roommates in college. Peanut Buster Parfaits the week before the Girls were born. After about nine weeks on bedrest, you start to get a little punchy. The television programs that you watch have lost their luster. Grahm Kerr pining about the virtues of an exotic fruit doesn’t turn you into a cook, but you think it does. Murder, She Wrote becomes even more formulaic than in the past. Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich becomes the highlight of the day. And attempting to keep up on classes has become even…