Before we move odeward: Foundling Fathers is out in the world! Do me a favor and get it wherever books are sold. I’ll be on tour on the west coast next week, and have a few more dates in Mass coming up. Join me if you can!

Most of the jokes you’ve heard about airline food are from the ‘90s. Consider the idea that the ‘90s were a long time ago, painful though it is for us all to admit. Consider that the idea was sold to you by petty criminals like Jerry Seinfeld, who never liked anything but an underage girl.

Air travel is miserable in general, and very difficult for me in specific. I travel as an author and I’m a cheerful, well-dressed and considerate frequent flyer. Despite the indignity, discomfort, and inconvenience of getting around by plane, I try to remind myself that it’s a miracle. It is a concept beyond the comprehension of nearly every human being to precede me on this planet that I might ride in a big metal tube that moves 500mph toward my chosen destination on a whim and with a minimum of planning or fuss. If I chose to, I could leave my home this minute and demand passage to China with a credit card and a passport, and be there tomorrow. This is a revolution to remake the human experience, on par with antibiotics or birth control. We are free to move through the skies.

On top of all that unimaginable privilege, a well-dressed polite person with a lot of safety training will also serve me two Biscoff cookies that I can crumble into a cup of hot tea while I’m on my way.

If it hasn’t been made clear by the fist six months of this project, I’m an appreciator. Most of the time, I look for reasons to be grateful. I can find the pleasurable experience in anything that sucks, and air travel is one of my best examples. When my hips are bruised by the armrests, when my seatmate is a throat-clearing fidgeter, when the toddlers are screaming and the “rough air” is shaking us like a martini, while the drunks are puking in bags, and the in-flight movie (another miracle!) stars Adam Sandler, I am still having a pretty wonderful time.

Part of my good time on a flight is snacks. I like to rate an airline by their snacks, and have enjoyed Sun Chips and Pistachios on Southwest, even though I have resolved to never fly that airline again. My first Virgin flight turned me on to their gently mood-lit snack station, fully stocked with fresh bananas and cookies and chips and Cokes, just available whenever you might want them. Most airlines slide you a little something: a ginger ale or a bag of pretzels. It’s a pleasant munch, even on a short flight.

In-flight meal service can mean a lot of things. On AeroMexico, I was served hot instant noodles by a flight attendant who was pouring boiling water out of a kettle for 300 people at 30,000 feet. I’ve been awoken with grilled cheese sandwiches and orange juice and granola bars by many a well-meaning space waitress who wanted me to get myself in order before the descent. I’ve been served the breakfast hobby kit of steamed eggs and bacon and tiny plastic cutlery, knowing full well that its main purpose is to keep us passengers busy, quiet, and focused while the crew prepares us to land. I am still moved to prayers of gratitude, no matter how basic the meal served may be. I am a traveler, being fed according to the ancient rules of hospitality. I am sacred, I am safe, and I am sated.

The best version of this experience is a transatlantic flight. European airlines have a heightened expectation of civilized conduct, and every flight to France I’ve ever boarded has come with a little complementary glass of champagne. A toast to traveling through the skies and coming back down to where the grapes grow! A toast to us, gods of the earth traveling in coach. My last flight to France, I watched the crew feed all the children on board first. Their fare included wooden biodegradable forks and spoons, each routed through the middle so that wings could be pushed through to make each piece of cutlery a little airplane to fly food to the kids’ mouths. The children got milk and fresh fruit cups, each one of these the product of mutliple continents. See us in the sky, eating apples and kiwis, bitching about it the whole time. Wonder why the gods don’t flick every plane out of the clouds when they hear our ingratitude.

Once the kids fall to their dinners, service comes through for the grownups. People who are trained to talk soothingly to terrorists or use a debrillator also ask you if you want chicken or pasta, and then set it in front of you. Each plate features bread and butter, every diner is offered red or white wine. I accept the wine every time, and hope that it helps me sleep. On a belly full of cheese and Montepulciano, I often do.

I remember by first flight into Germany as an adult. I was nineteen, traveling on my own money, amazed that I didn’t have to be 21 to drink. As Deutsche BA took us over the border into the country of my destination, the crew passed out foil-wrapped chocolate hearts, bearing Wilkommen! in cheerful Alpine font. I cried like an exile coming home.

On my last flight with KLM, my lunch was served in a beautiful Delft blue sealed box, decorated all over with a pattern of things the Dutch are proudest of: the tulips and the Zepplin, the stroopwaffel and the crown, the sign for Anne Frank’s house and the timeless windmill. Inside, the same pattern adorned a tiny, clever paper envelope containing packets of salt and pepper. Such attention paid to details with only beauty as its aim is a form of honor that I’ve been wordlessly awed to receive.

One day all this will be gone. The way we live now is unsustainable, and I tend to think that air travel will either change in accordance with the way the world is falling apart, by falling apart or becoming (may it be!) less ecologically costly through some new miracle of science. But I have never been on an airplane, eating tortellini, drinking my third glass of Cabernet as I vault across the globe, without having the thought cross my mind that all this is far to good to last. Who am I to eat a banana at cruising altitude?

Airline food is a privilege inside a privilege. I am a complainer when it’s warranted, but I would rather dwell in gratitude for each wonderful thing I see before I die. I will not complain about being fed as a traveler, anywhere by anyone. I will not be the one complaining about the privilege inside the privilege for it not being enough. It is enough. I am well-fed, I am well-traveled, and I am grateful.