Who else is feeling just a little batty after months of isolated routine that rarely changes? The struggle is real. My post-pandemic fantasy is to be served food that I did not make.
This (hopefully humorous) reflection began in an online group-write hosted by Julie Hartley of Centauri Arts.
I’ve had it with feeding myself, day after day, week after week. Three times a day, or two with snacks. My appetite is endless but the ideas for food come from a shallow-bottomed well and there’s been a drought.
Some days I wonder, where does it all go, this food. And why do I need it, constantly? This impulse to feel things moving into my belly is so weird, so distracting. What could life be without the constant trivia of mealtime?
My mother has declared herself retired from cooking. How many meals, how many hours have died there in her kitchen these past 50 years? “It takes energy,” she says, “it interrupts my train of thought and I have the book club to prepare for.” The daily requirement for sustenance is drudgery, and plus, she points out, “Your dad got to retire, I’m retiring, too.”
This thing, this habit, this hunger is forever. I’ll always need to eat until I don’t anymore. It’s like breathing, but different, because it requires attention.
I’d like an I.V. drip. I dream of it – receiving regular deliveries of whatever my body needs to keep moving and my brain to keep churning. Steady, thoughtless deposits of sustenance to free me from the repetitive imperative of food.