I’ve gotten pretty used to eating alone and no longer hesitate to go out to eat alone. Yesterday I had a rather enjoyable early St. Patricks Daymeal of beer, fish and chip and a good book.
What We Eat When We Eat Alone By Deborah Madison
(read while in Madison, Wi and eating alone fittingly enough)
It reminded me that there can be a certain romance that can exist in the self-indulgence of eating alone. It has occured to me the I feel a little like I’ve forgotten how to cook for someone else. (Now don’t get me wrong, dinner for 10, I still have confidence enough for). But this book, as it described the quirky meals people make for themselves, made me consider my own solo meals. Many of which are as, Madison puts it, “very personal foods… and are not easily shared” Such as my diner before my rock climbing date on Friday: a wedge of laughing cow cheese and two soft boiled eggs eaten with Frank’s Red Hot. Eggs, in any form, though usually boiled and never for long enough, with Frans are one of my most frequent meals. So far what I love about this book is that some how it makes me feel warm and fuzzy, almost protective, about my two egg meals or “wine in the bath” dinners.
I’ve gotten pretty used to eating alone, being alone. Its nice to find something that makes me value my alone time. Instead of just accept it.
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