My partner/spouse is out of town for most of the summer finishing up her Master’s degree in English. I’m so proud of her, and I miss her a great deal.
One of the things I miss most is sharing a meal together. 5:30, 6 o’clock finds us both in the kitchen. I’m doing dishes and trying to clear things out of A’s way, and she’s getting started on supper. The dogs, of course, are always underfoot, waiting for a morsel of carrot to fall. It’s a dance the four of us do: dogs scuttling across the floor after fallen food, me and A stepping over them and turning and twisting past each other. Without fail, I try to put dishes away as she’s trying to get dishes out. But we do it this way every day.
As we’re bumping and bungling our way through the tight spaces of the kitchen, we’re talking. We’re talking about our days, our annoyances (always seem to be more of those), our triumphs.
To be fair, I completely miss A’s cooking. AND….I miss our time together in the kitchen. It’s hard to cook for one person and it’s just plain lonely. My meals are sad because I don’t feel like putting forth the effort for something elaborate. Why bother? It’s just me.
In a way, this summertime experience reminds me of being single–when I cooked for myself every night. Or just stretched out leftovers as long as possible. I was watching the onions saute tonight as I made another lackluster dinner for one, and I spied this lone little piece, off by itself. That’s me, I thought. Off by myself.
Fortunately, A comes home for a short visit this weekend, and she’s promised to make me several casseroles that I can freeze and defrost for the rest of her time in school. I’m grateful for that–and even more grateful that I’ll get to share some meals with her this weekend. I miss our routine.