Love is Stored in the Soup

I’m trying to teach myself how to cook.

My brother and I were not brought up in the kitchen— in fact, we were heavily encouraged to stay out of the kitchen so we weren’t in our parents’ way. Our family had easy staples that we could lend a hand with, but overall skills and knowledge about cooking were not passed down to us. 

When I moved out for the first time, my compulsive tendencies and restrictive eating habits hit an all time high. I was too scared to eat for fear of my food being contaminated, leading me to cooking the same three sad meals in miniscule proportions every week for four months (if it can even be called cooking). It was a long and hungry summer. 

Now that I’m on my own again, I’m trying harder to take care of myself. This looks like actually taking my meds and washing my face in the morning, getting up and moving every day, and trying to teach myself how to cook. I still don’t have kitchen knowledge or skills (I think I may be the world’s worst garlic mincer) but I’m trying to have fun with it, finding at least one new recipe to attempt each week. My weekly self-date is to the grocery store— I listen to 80’s rock and I groove through the aisles, picking out new ingredients and staples for the week ahead. 

The meals rarely turn out great. They turn out fine most nights, and good sometimes. This week, I made myself soup and I will say it was the closest I’ve gotten to a great meal so far. I felt accomplished despite the random chunks of onion and pepper littering my floor, casualties of my horrid knife skills. Literally and metaphorically, the soup warmed me for days. It feels so good to be able to show myself love like this. It feels like I am finally moving away from that first summer, like I’m finally getting some things right.

I’ve always said that I’m not a good cook, but that I love following instructions. And it’s true! Step-by-step lists are one of my favourite things in this world, so following recipes should be a breeze. But it isn’t, and I’m trying to remember that that’s okay. I’m not only trying to teach myself a new skill, but a new way of thinking and being. What matters is that I’m putting in the work to keep myself going, to not only try new things, but to fuel my body because I love my body and I want to take care of it. I want to teach myself that my anxiety and compulsive tendencies are not more important than my body’s needs. 

Living alone has been hard. Coming home to silence after a long day of working with the public has been hard. And most nights, knowing that I am the only one responsible for myself and my well being has been hard. But once I fire up the burner, and I take the produce out of the fridge, and I pull the recipe up on my slowly dying phone, it feels easier. Because I come home to myself, who I love, and I’m the one who gets to take care of me, who gets to treat me right. I’m the one who gets to make me soup. And while I may not always get it perfectly, I know that I’m trying, and I love myself for it. 

Currently reading: 

Summer Sons by Lee Mandelo (physical), Just Like Home by Sarah Gailey (physical), and Jackal by Erin E. Adams (audiobook). Spooky atmospheric reads for the chilly fall days. Loving them all and having a hard time deciding which one to dedicate time to when I sit down to read. 

Currently watching:

Haven’t started a new show since finishing The Bear a few weeks ago, but this week I watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time in my life (I know, I know) and understand everything now. I am a changed human. 

Thanks for being gentle. Send me your favourite nut free recipes and stream The Loneliest Time ❤