1. Denial.
Full Indian meal, all the sides and condiments.
This isn’t happening. Everything can carry on as normal. I can cope. I can.
Cope.
I ruin the roti and the subji I make is both bland and burnt.
2. Bargaining.
Essentials: 4 hr ghee, slowly caramelised french onion soup, plum and apple crumble with custard, meal preps.
I’m useless and can’t fix this. But I can make their life a bit easier. I anticipate the essentials and cook everything they might possibly want and need. Soups for easy eating when they don’t feel hungry. Ghee for all the Indian meals they cook. Something sweet, warm and comforting to hug the black gap inside her chest.
3. Depression.
Fish fingers, oven chips, and baked beans on the sofa. Blanket and dressing gown. Hot honey and lemon with painkillers.
Foggy head. Cold, aching muscles. A mental and physical weight drops that just won’t move.
4. Anger.
Menu 1 – Introverted anger. Rage with the food.
Sore arm dough: Naan, pizza, roti. All the breads.
Menu 2 – Extroverted anger. Rage against the food.
Thinly bashed chicken schnitzel coated in mortar and pestle breadcrumbs. Served with a side of crushed new potatoes in a vinegar dressing, roughly hacked salad. And a lemon wedge.
No. Don’t help, I’m doing it myself. No, I’m not going to explain it step-by-step and spoon-feed to you why I’m doing it like this. What’s with all the comments I didn’t ask for. If you think you know better then why don’t you do it yourself! Nothing’s wrong. I just want to do this my way, by myself.
3. Depression again.
tinned tomato soup. knob of butter. mug. bed.
Tired. More than
tired.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
5. Acceptance.
I’ll let you know when I get here.
Edit. May 2022: Wedding cake.
i miss you.
Steaming Chai 