There comes a time in most people’s lives when they hit a massive funk that tests everything they have.  My coping mechanism is cooking.  Unlike cooking under the influence of other emotions – out of love, anxiety, or otherwise – this particular mode is more of a ritual.  My menu is based entirely on what seems good or plausible at the moment.  I also cook a ton of food in preparation for the spikes of catatonic exhaustion or the possibility of not being able to leave the house.  More importantly, a shit ton of food feels festive, which is why a dessert is necessary.

My dinner guests are rarely other people.  Instead, the people in my kitchen with me are those no longer here, those I wish could be.  I cook apologies to those I’ve hurt, love notes that will never be read, jokes over drinks that cannot happen because things just aren’t funny anymore.  I cook wishes to the silence that I’ve come to understand as the closest thing to a god.  I cook ear rubs to cats past.  I cook poisoned bowls for those on my (short) vendetta list.

Tonight’s menu:

Roast chicken

Overflowing Minestrone

Pecan Pear Quick Bread

Concord grapes

Figs

Dill Havarti

I also ate the chicken’s liver drizzled with a nice white truffle oil and scotch-aged black pepper, cracked.

 

 

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