What We Eat When We Eat Alone - Deborah Madison [55]
But a few times a week Marilyn makes a more complete meal for herself. “A piece of broiled fish with a topping, a baked potato, and my favorite vegetables with garlic and olive oil. I make enough vegetables to last for a couple of meals. Or I make a pot of navy beans and ham, and eat standing up in the kitchen, savoring each bite.”
And if Marilyn wants a particular food that she doesn’t eat often, she says, “Being alone would not stop me from preparing it, even if I give away some to another solo friend. Especially when it comes to a dessert I want to make. I make it, eat some, and give it away.” And it’s not a bad thing to be on the receiving end of one of Marilyn’s desserts.
For older people especially, being alone often suddenly involves a new way of living, a life that’s rudely jarring in its unfamiliarity. We have heard from so many older people who make do with a carton of yogurt, something tossed in a microwave, or a bowl of cereal, that it’s disheartening. The light just seems to go out when food is no longer about shared meals and conversation. For many of us, eating is a very social act, one that thrives on company, even that of one other person.
“Very sad things happen to older people when they lose their partners,” writes Marsha Weiner, thinking of her own grandparents. “Some just can’t get a grip on feeding themselves well when suddenly alone. It’s just too foreign.”
But that’s not always the case. After Rosalind Cummins talked about her own cobbled together meals that she sometimes shares with her cat, Tiny, she sighed and added, “My dad used to make a real dinner for himself every night after my mom died, and I really admired him for that. He was a fabulous cook. There were many dishes he made from memory, but he also cooked out of the New York Times pretty often. I really miss his cooking. Nobody makes Finnan Haddie for me anymore!”
I was moved by Judith Jones’s thoughts in her book, The Tenth Muse, on cooking and eating alone after Evan, her husband of so many years and partner in so many adventurous meals, died. At first she doubted that she could cook again, but then found that enacting what had been for the two of them a daily ritual was actually a way of bringing Evan back into what had been their shared life—walking into the kitchen at the end of the day, turning on music, and conjuring up an enjoyable evening meal.
“When, at last, I sit down and light the candles,” she writes, “the place across from me is not empty.” These words strike me as an eloquent defense of the value that comes of cooking and enjoying the pleasures of the table.
“I actually enjoy preparing my simple meals,” my ninety-year-old mother says. “They must be working out well because I feel great most of the time. And I’m so glad that the nutritionists have decided that coffee is very good for you and that you should drink a lot of it, because coffee is my preferred drink.”
My mother has been eating alone for a great many years except when she invites friends over to dinner, which is often. A soup enthusiast, she reminds me about a saying of her mother’s, which was “two and two make five,” meaning a soup can be taken a long way from what you start with. You can change it over the three or four days it’s around, having it chunky one night, puréed the next, adding cream a third night, croutons and garnishes a fourth. And that’s exactly what a lot of solo eaters do because when you want to eat but don’t want to think about cooking, soup is that dish. It’s extremely accommodating, mostly agreeing to improve with age. But then, the soup my mother turns to over and over again is not one of these mathematical soups, but a salmon chowder, which hearkens back to her Rhode Island roots.
For a year I took care of an elderly woman who was recovering from an illness. Her spotless, all-white apartment offered an expansive view of San Francisco Bay and the ships slowly going in and out all day long. She took her simple meals at her highly polished table, eating