There are very few circumstances which render me incapable of wanting to cook.
I truly believe that just about everything is improved by food. Not always the same type of food, but always food. And if I can make something just a little bit better by cooking for someone, then maybe I've fulfilled my purpose in life.
And generally, if it's someone else that's suffering, there are a short list of things that will keep me from bringing them food. Namely, if I don't know where you live, or if getting you the food requires crossing a continent or an ocean. Otherwise, try and stop me from cooking for you. The love that I feel for someone is never more apparent, never more clearly expressed, than when I have made them food.
Maybe that sheds a little light on something inside me.... maybe it also explains why when I am miserable -- when I'm upset and hurting, the last thing I want to do is cook for myself. I'll cook for those I care about, I'll make them food, but I can't cook for myself when my heart is breaking. I can't even think about it. Maybe that means that I don't love myself nearly as much as I love others. It probably does. But when I'm this sad, I can't even begin to think about healing it.
No one died. Don't worry. Jesse didn't break up with me. According to the sage advice of the woman at the brokerage who doesn't know anything about me, except my bank account number, there are worse things going on in the world right now. But for me, being told that the woman at the realtor's office is "90% sure" that we'll be able to move into the apartment by the first of July is pretty fucking bad. Especially because y'know.... I have a job. Jesse has a job. We can't take off a random day in July at a moment's notice to supervise movers. We either have to be able to move, or hope that our landlord will give us another few weeks, month, whatever it ends up being. I don't even know what to do with that information.
And I feel bad. I feel badly that even if food is offered, I don't even want to eat it. I had to put a beautiful chocolate bar on the dining room table, because even though Kristin bought it for me as a gift.... I can't eat it.
Food doesn't heal me the way I hope that it heals everyone else.
I feel badly. I feel badly that I'm not making dinner. We had a beautiful dinner planned -- a salad with rare tuna, just lightly seared. Spinach, the lovely bunch of arugula I picked up, a red pepper, some roasted tomatoes, and the tuna. It would have been wonderful. But it would have been a waste. I'm glad we didn't eat it.
I know that Kristin can cook. But I still feel badly because I feel like I *should* be making dinner. I should suck it up, be tough, and make dinner - not the tuna because even if I'm sucking it up I couldn't waste that. But I suppose I could take the loose cash in my bag and go buy some eggs and make a frittata. I could at least make scrambled eggs. But I can't. I'm just too drained. I'm too sad. I'm too..... everything. And too nothing.
Time to go back to the drawing board with the P.T.B. And this time, beg. Yeah. Let's do that. Anyone that has a good relationship with the Powers that Be (PTB), please beg on my behalf. On our behalf. Since we already have to cancel our 4th of July barbecue, because we won't have furniture, we could use a little PTB favor. So... yeah. Any help would be greatly appreciated on our behalf. Thanks.