For dinner last night, not feeling particularly hungry I ate a bag of peas. Raw peas in their pods, I didn’t crunch my way through a bag of frozen petit pois. Still hungry an hour later I added to the feast with a couple of Peters Yard crisp breads and smoked trout pate. If I’m alone, it’s my choice.
Brought up to believe that food is to be shared, a social occasion,
eating alone conjures up loneliness. Is one fun? Eating alone can make me feel as if I’m being punished.
How many of us don’t bother cooking because ‘it’s just for me’ or eat standing at the sink or in front of the open fridge? Do we ever turn that around and celebrate the possibility and pleasure of eating at the open fridge because there’s no-one around to point a finger?
Eating alone can be meditative, contemplative or swing right round to boring, frustrating, annoying, something to be cancelled out.
The relationship is with the food on my plate in front of you.
The relationship is with the food on my plate in front of you.
