Dinnertime Musings

I have spent the better part of my week beneath tears, flattened and curled into sadness. I ride their waves as a small bottle afloat in the sea, my whole life a message tucked inside. Today I began the slow pull against the tide; I have not yet cried one tear.

I have not eaten a proper meal since Monday. I thought about dinner and stared regretfully at the cherries wrinkling in the fridge, the green tea I brewed with raw honey and lemon sitting still in the jug; the kale, chard, red peppers, and creminis retreating from time. I decided to make myself a small dinner...a slice of Portugese bread cut in half, two handfuls of mozzarella, luscious slices of tomatoes just plucked from my vine, and a swipe of pesto before going into the hot olive oil. I don't recall when I've had such luck making a grilled cheese, the bread golden and crisp, tomatoes held strong between the layered mozzarella. I took it out and placed it on the plate, cutting it in half again, pulling it apart in long, thinning strings. It was lonely on my plate...I threw a handful of organic sweet potato fries right into the drying pan, and they sizzled awake. After several flippings of the pan, I pulled out a few fries, and took a hasty bite of my sandwich.

I couldn't taste anything remotely familiar.

I tried the sweet potatoes, and couldn't taste their maply richness.

I think the days without food have altered my tastebuds. I ate half the sandwich and a few fries so as not to be wasteful, but there was no joy. The best meals are when the chef has put in the love. I wonder if the love that has been amputated from my life extends to an inability to live out my days putting love into the daily tasks. It is part of who I am, to exemplify love, to be its personification; but perhaps I am no longer myself, and must find my way to shore, out of the water, back into my own skin.