How to summer – cooking for self

The joys of solo summer afternoons at home

There is an urban legend that cooking for one is cumbersome.

Back when I used to go into the office and have physical lunches with colleagues, that was the most popular excuse I heard from my peers in single households. They cannot be more wrong.

Cooking for one is the most fun a girl (or a guy) can have. Here’s how.

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Comfort food: a Zen-inspired dinner

Not knowing what you want and not acknowledging your feelings are the most detrimental things you can ever do to your personal happiness. If you combine this emotional self-dishonesty with distrust, impulsivity and a tendency for control, you get a recipe for failure. Due to a twisted fate, I am somehow convinced that the true marker of getting over someone is to be with another person. Practically speaking, a relationship status is the only tangible, visible indicator. Is it not?

And my status for this Valentine says single. That is despite my rushing in and artificially foisting upon a special kind of connection. After all, what does it mean to get over someone? Is it when you stop feeling attraction for the person? How do you get over someone when there was very little to begin with? Or what if you can never remove that chemistry?

Time and distance continue to be the answer. Meanwhile, some zen should help, and maybe some zen-inspired community dinner, consisting of carrot rice, tofu satay and baked apples. It was a truly warm, comforting meal.

Here’s a very suitable Margaret Atwood quote from one of her most known works, The Handmaid’s Tale:

“Falling in love, we said; I fell for him. We were falling women. We believed in it, this downward motion: so lovely, like flying, and yet at the same time so dire, so extreme, so unlikely. God is love, they once said, but we reversed that, and love, like heaven, was always just around the corner. The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always, for the incarnation. That word, made flesh.

And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends had been evasive about it, at the time.

There is a good deal of comfort, now, in remembering this.”

Hard to remove spirituality from love, isn’t it? Thoughts?