This morning I pulled out the smallest sauce pot I own. Craving grits and a scrambled egg, I was awestruck at the amount of water it takes to make grits for one.
How do I not face the fact that I'm cooking for one: me. I could microwave. I could make normal amount for spouse and our two daughters -throw away residual. Skip grits; make toast.
How do I make grits for me, and me only... and be okay with that? When do I get to embrace it? Savor the ability to not pull out shredded cheese for the girls. No Splenda for the spouse. Just creamy, long-simmered, salted, thick hot grits ... and a side of scrambled egg. Yes, one egg.
What is worse? Making grits for one, or, making grits for the wrong one. Comfort in a familiar role dissipates with resentment and anxiety.
Not hungry any more.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment