Saying Goodbye to Cooking
And letting go of me
I’m going to miss the smell of caramelizing onions, roasted garlic and freshly squeezed lemon. But not enough to keep on cooking. I’m giving up on homemade meals, and while I’m experiencing a slight bittersweet tinge of regret, it’s still not enough to change my mind.
I’m tired. I’m busy. I’m still recovering from a stroke, even if the big, important things have returned to normal, including working full time. I just want a simpler, easier life.
Zipping down the freeway some years ago, next to the left lane — the carpool lane, the fast lane, the passing lane — I passed a minivan in that lane doing at least 10 miles per hour less than I was. And I wasn’t exceeding the speed limit by all that much. Her little carpool was creating a backup, and I thought, just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.
This little gem of a thought popped into my head not long ago as I realized the joy had gone out of cooking. I love to cook, I thought, and then had to revise. I used to love to cook. Why hang on to a version of myself that isn’t working?
