I’ve been think a lot recently about the idea of safety. Specifically how powerful it is to turn to someone and say, “You make me feel safe.” To trust them fully. And at the same time how important it is to learn to how to make my own kind of safety. A deep breath. A lit candle. A good meal.
It’s funny what prior versions of ourselves think and do. Mine not only prayed to the god of sticky dough and wooden spoons but also had very specific ideas of what it was going to mean to be a poet in 2020.
And so I make toast. But not just any toast. It’s the omg-do-you-know-what-would-taste-so-good-right-now-?! toast, also known in my family as “pan toast.” Medium hot skillet. Melted butter. Bread. It’s better than toaster toast because the bread stays moist on the inside. It melts in your mouth. Pan toast is not Pinterest-worthy. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s everything you ever need: comfort.
as i started dating, my story became this: “i can’t cook.” i believed it. it was far easier to swallow than this: “i wasn’t good enough for someone, and i’m probably not good enough for you, either.”
i am 24 hours out of my third break-up in as many months, and i am thinking i need to go on my own wild solo hike. it’s not enough to abandon everything you know: you need to make something in its place.
i’ve long said that the glorious cookbooks on my fridge are aspirational. i’m often convinced that the right recipe will change my life, turn me into someone who cooks. i’m a little high on that idea today after eating all day what i cooked last night. as far as i know, i haven’t poisoned myself, and it’s fairly clear: homemade — even my homemade — is simply fresher and more flavorful.