It’s easy to go into a culinary slump when you live alone. So go ahead and indulge yourself
I don’t live alone now. But I did for quite a few years on and off, and for all that I loved having a room of my own at last (how pleasant, not to have to extract someone else’s hair from the shower), there were always lonely moments. When I was burgled, there was no one to comfort me after the police had left. A couple of boyfriends dumped me (though to be fair, I dumped a couple back). Sometimes, having cooked myself a proper supper, I would have one of those sad, out-of-body experiences when you suddenly see yourself as if in a heavy, gilt frame, and think: oh my God, I look like Picasso’s absinthe drinker, only a bit less cheery.
I have found myself worrying about all sorts of people during this lockdown; it isn’t easy for any of us. But thanks, perhaps, to memories of that first mushroomy basement flat, my mind turns most often to those who, for whatever reason, are cloistered alone like secular nuns (or monks, if you prefer). “I’m sick of my cooking,” said my friend, C, the other day, an announcement that made me both happy (good, she’s cooking for herself) and a bit anxious (oh no, I hope she’s not going to stop cooking for herself). It’s so easy not to bother when you’ve only yourself to please – a habit that’s also dangerously cyclical. The less you bother, the less you’re capable of bothering.
