what I ate last: pan-fried chicken breast, porcini mushroom sauce, sweet potato mash, turnip greens
Everyone always says how they hate cooking for one. For me cooking a really good meal just for me is one of life's greatest luxuries, as eating in a restaurant by oneself also now is, though the latter used to make me uncomfortable. I am home alone tonight and cooked just for me exactly what I wanted to eat, a proper meal (not just a quick pasta) and sat down and ate it properly with a glass of wine and a glass of water, salt and pepper on the table in front of me, and, in lieu of conversation, a good book to stop me from eating too fast.
Once I remember planning for myself a three-course meal because I knew my flatmates were going to be out. Jerusalem artichoke soup as a starter, if I remember right, then lamb chops, and as a dessert I think I had biscotti and poached apricots. It was the greatest treat - not to worry about pleasing everyone's tastes, not to have to have everything done on time or to have to wait for someone who was late for dinner - a sensation of sheer luxury that is all the more so knowing that no-one can witness my greed. Tonight's menu was planned around my new dried porcini from Amazon, which are actually pretty good. I'm getting into the turnip greens thing here too, for me slightly preferable to collard as they have thicker stalks giving them more crunch - some way to the texture of swiss chard.
Eating in a restaurant by myself was definitely an acquired taste as a result of travelling a lot on my own, but now I have lost all shame and love it the more for the fact that often staff and fellow customers are rather bemused by the appearance of a single girl wanting a table for one. Especially as then I tend to eat my way through a substantial part of the menu, not restricting myself in the slightest. In England I rarely do eat out on my own, except at local cafes or greasy spoons: the experience is definitely associated with travel. Reading a guidebook at the table in a foreign country, writing postcards with dinner, observing the eating habits of a different culture, striking up conversation with my waiter - these are some of my most vivid travel memories, located in falafel bars in Jerusalem, chic-chi neighbourhood brunch spots in New York, upper-echelon hotel restaurants in Iran and bistros all over France. No fellow traveller to worry about spending too much at a better restaurant, or to fret over the hygiene standards of a backstreets eatery. Just myself, able to eat exactly as I like.
Once I remember planning for myself a three-course meal because I knew my flatmates were going to be out. Jerusalem artichoke soup as a starter, if I remember right, then lamb chops, and as a dessert I think I had biscotti and poached apricots. It was the greatest treat - not to worry about pleasing everyone's tastes, not to have to have everything done on time or to have to wait for someone who was late for dinner - a sensation of sheer luxury that is all the more so knowing that no-one can witness my greed. Tonight's menu was planned around my new dried porcini from Amazon, which are actually pretty good. I'm getting into the turnip greens thing here too, for me slightly preferable to collard as they have thicker stalks giving them more crunch - some way to the texture of swiss chard.
Eating in a restaurant by myself was definitely an acquired taste as a result of travelling a lot on my own, but now I have lost all shame and love it the more for the fact that often staff and fellow customers are rather bemused by the appearance of a single girl wanting a table for one. Especially as then I tend to eat my way through a substantial part of the menu, not restricting myself in the slightest. In England I rarely do eat out on my own, except at local cafes or greasy spoons: the experience is definitely associated with travel. Reading a guidebook at the table in a foreign country, writing postcards with dinner, observing the eating habits of a different culture, striking up conversation with my waiter - these are some of my most vivid travel memories, located in falafel bars in Jerusalem, chic-chi neighbourhood brunch spots in New York, upper-echelon hotel restaurants in Iran and bistros all over France. No fellow traveller to worry about spending too much at a better restaurant, or to fret over the hygiene standards of a backstreets eatery. Just myself, able to eat exactly as I like.
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