I cooked today for the first time in weeks. All I made were eggs, with spinach, and bacon. I ate them with grapes, two slices of banana bread someone gave us, and a glass of orange juice. It tasted sooo good. I ate every bite and wished for more. I felt alive.
I have been eating microwavable crap, take-out, and snacks, if I have been eating at all, which is huge divergence from my regular eating habits. But today I cooked.
Not that I’m such an expert, but if I were to write a guidebook for the grieving, I would say: Don’t be afraid to go with the flow of your grief. As long as you aren’t doing anything violent, rash, or self-destructive, go ahead and let yourself be in bed for hours on end, turn up your nose at food, watch three movies in a row, or go half a day without answering your phone. I know I haven’t been eating so great, which would be destructive eventually. But eventually (when I was ready) I cooked my own meal instead, and it tasted so good it made me feel human.
I’m pretty certain if I had forced myself to cook and then forced myself to eat it before today, I would have felt like a ghost only pretending to be human. By the time I ate that simple home-cooked meal today, I smiled, actually smiled as I chewed, and I might just return to the kitchen tomorrow for the pure pleasure of it.