Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant: Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone

by Jenni Ferrari-Adler

I missed the texture and chaos of daily life shared with others.

anything was delicious.

On the other hand, there is something life affirming in taking the trouble to feed yourself well, or even decently.

We adjust to solitude and an increased responsibility for caring for ourselves as we grow older, as we leave home for the first time, as we move, as our circumstances change. We dine alone once or for a brief time or for a long time.

Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest.

My Gruyère cheese puffs straight from the oven say I’m glad you’re here. Sit down, relax. I’ll look after everything.

It is a pleasure to not have to take anyone else’s tastes into account or explain why I like to drink my grapefruit juice out of the carton. Eating, after all, is a matter of taste, and taste cannot always be good taste.

But the problem was that I had retreated so far into myself—shielding myself from the ghosts and memories of this place—that I had become reliant upon the comfort of rituals and plans.

What does an introvert do when he’s left alone? He stays alone.

But the thing is, every time, every single time a word of criticism reached the tip of my tongue, I was torn between how I was raised and who I wanted to be.

It’s true, once you know what’s possible…Well, like they say, you can’t go home again.

For once in my life I felt rich and cultured—classy, yes. I felt very, very classy. Whatever else happened between us, he gave me that, and I’m grateful, truly.

Anyhow, a few weeks ago, I came across this recipe called Soda Cracker Pie, which I’d never noticed before. But it was the introduction that caught my eye: “Mother says that this really does taste like an apple pie—it was made a lot during the Depression and the recipe should be saved for posterity.” Honestly, until I read that, I’d never seen the poetry, never given any real thought to how much life a recipe can hold—not ours—well, not mine, at least. I mean, it’s been staring at me all along, and I’ve missed it this whole time. And that’s no one’s fault but my own.

The best are the extra-large fillets packed by Ortiz, which are not cheap. Another good packer is Agostino Recca from Sicily.

There was nothing I could do. The fact was, I wanted the same thing again and again. And so I yielded, bought the goods, took them home, cooked, and ate, accompanied usually by music, preferably a public radio station that played music I liked. And I am here to tell you, the pleasure never diminished. I was happy every time.

Sometimes we find home, even for a temporary stay, and settle in.

He showed up from time to time and after I moved to D.C. from Austin, he was still in my life but making a habit of not showing up anymore. When I ate alone I tried not to think of him but it was hard. By then, I’d bought a George Foreman grill, which became my cooker of choice. I’d buy a slab of tuna or salmon or a boneless chicken breast, season it a little, then slam it between the plates. I called it “Georging,” as in, I just Georged some salmon.

But it’s also true that a certain share of the left-wing zeal in this country has turned away from the looming crises we face as a species, and toward ornate sensual gratifications.

Whenever I tell a lie, something weird happens to my voice.

And it’s hard to have a bad impression of somebody you have no impression of.

Thinking about spaghetti that boils eternally but is never done is a sad, sad thing.

I like the communal anonymity of watching people as they go about their lives, and a restaurant is a good place to do this.

The place itself had lost the casual indifference, the sloppy humanity, that had invited me to eat there every day.

Why should it take courage, as I’m told it sometimes does, to treat oneself as generously as one would a guest?

It took me several years of such periods of being alone to learn how to care for myself, at least at table. I came to believe that since nobody else dared feed me as I wished to be fed, I must do it myself, and with as much aplomb as I could muster.

My expensive little dinners, however, became, in spite of my good intentions, no more than a routine prescription for existence.

“Never be daunted in private.”

But, and there was no cavil here, I felt firmly then, as I do this very minute, that snug misanthropic solitude is better than hit-or-miss congeniality. If One could not be with me, “feasting in silent sympathy,” then I was my best companion.

A ten-to-three ratio is probably not even practiced in Rome or Bogotá, but it seemed like the kind of coffee Philip Marlowe would drink. And I’m always game for playing the hardboiled detective. It helps make my semi-alcoholic bachelorhood feel rough and romantic.

Well, human beings often do things when there is no hope. For example, I’m always trying to flag down taxis that have their “occupied” light on. I see the light, register what it means, and yet I still wave at these unavailable taxis. In this way, it’s like one’s romantic life—we all want the cabs that won’t stop for us.

It started, as all self-indulgent habits do with me, in the midst of a failing relationship. I was twenty-five, drinking and drugging my way through the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle, and desirous of something steady to hold me in place.

Even if I was still alone, I felt full. The fullness and emptiness could somehow live side by side. I didn’t feel lonely.

If I had to be alone, this was the best way to do it.

But I knew now that some kind of fullness could be attained by dining out alone. I’ll show you who I am, I thought. I’m the girl who knows how to take care of her own needs since no one else knows how. Or is willing.

I liked choosing to eat alone. I did not want to be reminded I had no other options.

But nothing quite fills me up like taking care of myself, taking care of my desires.

Though the edge of my temporary unhappiness has been dulled by wine,

self-care for singles should include a sumptuous meal made for you and only you, eaten on a table cleared of papers and letters and cats and set with a place mat, matching napkin, and a spray of bluebonnets in a vase.

Without the shared appreciation, a meal might as well not exist, like a book with no one to read it except the author.

she eats with nothing between herself and her fine meal.

I’ve chosen a much milder, more secluded middle age than they did.