I rummaged through my refrigerator and threw together a dinner of no particular provenance or coherence: chopped tomatoes, onions, garlic, a bunch of leafy greens, and shredded roast chicken. The veggies were from my Tantre farm share and the chicken was Back Forty Acres. I sauteed the veggies, splashed some broth over the mess to keep it moist, threw in the chicken, and let it simmer. I had originally intended to toss it with pasta but then I thought, "why not just eat the mixture?" So I did. Just the mixture plopped in a bowl. With a hearty glass of my newly received wine shipped from California, it was...an amazing dinner. Just a big sloppy mélange of ingredients and a glass of wine and a cat on my lap. Delicious. Nutritious. Fabulous. No recipe, no direction, no plan, just me and my cutting board and knife and fingers dipping into my jar of salt for a crystalline sprinkle across a fragrant bubbling pan of food, good food, that I made for myself.
I love cooking. I love eating. I love opening my fridge and thinking, "So, what do I feel like tonight?" and pulling something down out of thin air. Yes, I dine alone these days. But I'm never lonely.