Of soda bread and loneliness
Mar. 17th, 2009 12:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meirwen_1988So I woke up in a fairly good mood--all three times. Got up and had tea and muffin, indulging in sweet butter instead of something less calorie laden.
Choosing between making shamrock-shaped sugar cookies and soda bread, I opted for the much less labor intensive tea bread. It is in the oven now, baking away, and will join some Irish cheddar and tea at 3, first in a cup and on a plate, then in my tummy.
It was, however, while the soda bread was being made that my mood crashed.
I thought about the bread baking, the house filling with the scent of it, and flashed back to all the times he'd come home to the smell of the house and smiling after a long day. I remember the joy he took in eating, and the joy I took in feeding him. The way he seemed to embrace the warmth of baked goods, and butter, and rare beef.
How, I wondered, do the widowed do it? Those without children, especially children at home? Those without a Duchezz? Those women and men, devoted partners, suddenly left alone with no one but themselves. Where do they find the energy to do more than open a McDonalds wrapper, or a Lean Cuisine? Where did I find the energy before him? I lived alone from the time I was 19 until I moved in with him at 31. I cooked--well. I baked cookies, and pies. I made cake. And I wasn't the size of a house. I made roasts, and stir fry, and pasta.
Then I was able to find pleasure in the simple act of cooking, in tasting the fruits of my labor. In arranging a room, in color and texture. It didn't matter that I was suiting myself alone. I didn't buy, or cook, or even really think about an "other" in the future I could share it with. It was about the moment, and the joy of just being alive in the moment. It was about flavor and hunger, color and comfort. Mine. And worrying about me was enough. And if there were lonely moments, they weren't about the hunger, they weren't about the comfort.
And now there is a hollowness in both those things. Yes, sometimes there is the Duchezz to cook for, but not always. Sometimes it is about the Duchezz comfort, but not always. Sometimes, like on Tuesdays, there is no Duchezz to care for. Then it is like those days when she was at work, and it would be only his step on the porch. Only him at the table with me. And then I wonder--where do those women and men find the strength to live, not merely exist? Because if the days were all like this, I don't know if I could. I really don't.
Choosing between making shamrock-shaped sugar cookies and soda bread, I opted for the much less labor intensive tea bread. It is in the oven now, baking away, and will join some Irish cheddar and tea at 3, first in a cup and on a plate, then in my tummy.
It was, however, while the soda bread was being made that my mood crashed.
I thought about the bread baking, the house filling with the scent of it, and flashed back to all the times he'd come home to the smell of the house and smiling after a long day. I remember the joy he took in eating, and the joy I took in feeding him. The way he seemed to embrace the warmth of baked goods, and butter, and rare beef.
How, I wondered, do the widowed do it? Those without children, especially children at home? Those without a Duchezz? Those women and men, devoted partners, suddenly left alone with no one but themselves. Where do they find the energy to do more than open a McDonalds wrapper, or a Lean Cuisine? Where did I find the energy before him? I lived alone from the time I was 19 until I moved in with him at 31. I cooked--well. I baked cookies, and pies. I made cake. And I wasn't the size of a house. I made roasts, and stir fry, and pasta.
Then I was able to find pleasure in the simple act of cooking, in tasting the fruits of my labor. In arranging a room, in color and texture. It didn't matter that I was suiting myself alone. I didn't buy, or cook, or even really think about an "other" in the future I could share it with. It was about the moment, and the joy of just being alive in the moment. It was about flavor and hunger, color and comfort. Mine. And worrying about me was enough. And if there were lonely moments, they weren't about the hunger, they weren't about the comfort.
And now there is a hollowness in both those things. Yes, sometimes there is the Duchezz to cook for, but not always. Sometimes it is about the Duchezz comfort, but not always. Sometimes, like on Tuesdays, there is no Duchezz to care for. Then it is like those days when she was at work, and it would be only his step on the porch. Only him at the table with me. And then I wonder--where do those women and men find the strength to live, not merely exist? Because if the days were all like this, I don't know if I could. I really don't.
