Tomatoes. Garlic. Parsley. Olive oil. Mozzerella. Basil. Kosher salt. Garlic.
It had been several years since my dysfunctional break up with Satan ended, but the conversation around the dinner table in Florence, Italy haunted me: once I learned how to cook, I’d learn how to love. I’d cook and create and serve food until my heart could be tasted in each and every bite. I’d whip up delectable morsels bringing mounds of joy and piles of pleasure. At least that’s what I dreamed of.
In a moment of sheer panic and SingleBrownFemale depression, I drove to the store and headed straight to the Italian cheese display. “Parmesean, ricotta, mozzerella, and everything will be fine,” I said under my breath. Throwing parsley, basil, and garlic into my basket like a professional pitcher, I was out of the market and on my way back home.
The whole family was coming over and I had to pretend life on Single Avenue was great, but deep inside the ache of dinners for one and solo lunches were wearying on the soul. Even the adorable Vietnamese lady who did my pedicures tried explaining in broken English that I needed to find a man.
“Um, Minh, I’m sorry but—uh, I don’t—um, what did you say?” She paused filing my nails and spoke slowly. She must have thought I didn’t understand her because she slowly replied, “Honeeee, wha you nee rearry bad is a chopstick. You know, honeee! Your odher half!!!”
Awesome. Just awesome. Now Minh Lien from Fancy Nail is my therapist and nail technician. Next I’ll be getting financial portfolio advice from the guy at the bakery. I’ll add FIND CHOPSTICK to my to-do list and it will be taken care of shortly.
Back on Single Avenue, I prepared the ricotta, one egg, chopped parsley, seasoned breadcrumbs and black pepper in a large bowl and thought about my life. I sipped sparkling water and thought, What went wrong? I did what I wanted to do. Graduate school, backpacking through Europe, all-night lock-ins with kids from youth group. I did what I wanted to do. So why do I feel so unfulfilled?
I’ve been conditioned to believe my life would magically be complete when I scratched everything off of my quarter-life crisis list. But it wasn’t. I pushed everything and everyone away so I could do what I wanted to do. And it was a zero sum game.
The bubbling of the shells in boiling water indicated they were ready to be drained. Reaching for the pot while simultaneously stirring the sauce on the next burner is a feat only few can accomplish, but I did it with grace as Dad and Mom spoke about their day in the living room.
So and so had her baby. He had his surgery. She passed away. It was the type of conversation only years of marriage could breeze through, but it was spoken with love like a soliloquy only a poet could achieve.
One by one family members arrived home and gathered around the dinner table to talk about basketball games, church updates, business reviews, and everything but my non-existent love life.
There I was, surrounded by my loved ones at our dining room table, crowded yet simultaneously alone, and the words of Minh Lien, my therapist/nail technician, were correct: I missed my other half.
My sister placed her head on the shoulder of her husband. My dad kissed my mom’s head. And I—well, I longed for my chop stick, my useful other half.
I served the stuffed shells onto dinner plates with caprese and bruschetta. I made sure everyone’s plates were overflowing. Just because my heart was empty, it didn’t mean their plates had to be. It was a caloric compensation for the emotional lack I felt within. And for a moment, it worked.
To eat is love and to love is to eat. Because eating is sharing. And sharing is caring. So eat up. And be loved.
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