Mar 26, 2023
He got Valley Fever a few years ago and did not come out of the bedroom for four weeks. Day 1 we had leftovers. Day 2 we had pizza. Days 3 through twenty-eight are kind of a blur. I know there were more leftovers and more pizza and some dinners at Grandma’s house. I think I found some prepared meals in the freezer.
When he got COVID last year and decided to quarantine in the bedroom, I panicked. How could I do another twenty-eight nights of leftovers and pizza?
“I am an adult,” I told myself. “I can do this. It is just food. Adults make food every day. I made food every day for myself when I was single. I can pull myself together.”
The first night, a friend brought over a home-cooked meal. Which was sweet. But also made me feel like… What is wrong with me? It is not that hard to open the refrigerator and take out some food and cook it and eat it.
So I sat myself down and took inventory of the refrigerator, the freezer, and the pantry. I didn’t even need to go shopping. There was enough food in the house to last a week at least.
I started planning. I knew what I was going to make for every meal for a week.
By the time I had the breakfast dishes cleared, I would start panicking that I needed to clean the kitchen and start making lunch. And once I survived lunch, I had to clean the kitchen and start dinner. There hardly seemed to be a moment that I wasn’t cooking or cleaning up from cooking.
Part of me was stressed by the constant pressure. And part of me was like, “Hey, I can cook! I’m a real adult now.”
I even thought I did a better job than my husband of re-purposing leftovers and getting the food ready at a reasonable time and cleaning up the mess. I could DO this. I was on a roll. I would be the new cook in the house. No more wondering what time we would be eating or if I should just jump in and do a load of dishes myself. No more finding slimy, week-old asparagus in the back of the refrigerator and having to throw it away. And definitely no more speed-defrosting.
I was starting to get a little cocky. I was like, “Yeah, I know Ashley doesn’t eat yogurt, so here is some toast for her with her favorite blackberry jam.” I was a pro-chef. I could keep things going. Best of all, no one was in MY kitchen making a mess. It was all MINE. I could keep it as clean and organized as I wanted, and no one would come in and make a peanut butter sandwich and leave the open jar of peanut butter on the counter with the sticky knife next to it in a sticky pool of peanut butter ooze.
But then he got better and took over, and I was secretly glad, if I’m honest. He has a doctor’s appointment at dinner time this week.
We’ll be ordering pizza.
