Twelve years ago, in 2010 -the first Thanksgiving after a couple of months of being houseless/homeless- was the last time I added grocery prices up the way I did this year. For whatever reason, this year I felt the same mix of emotions as I did back then.
Seven weeks have passed since I started the chemo-drug Methotrexate. Sadly, my dose has increased, which seems to be normal -a fact they didn’t share with me at first. Once a week, I meet the Nightingales, that’s what I call them. A form of endearment, a tribute to Florence Nightingale and all the others who followed in her footsteps, and take care of us when we need them the most.
My neighbor just signed up for Weight Watchers and she is excited the same way she always is when she finds help on her never-ending weight loss journey. “I was a chubby child, an overweight adult and now I am an overweight older Grandma,” she says and then she tells me about her heavy bones, and how she was doomed to be overweight her whole life. “It’s genetic!”
I have learned a lot about myself during the quarantine. I don’t need much to be happy. Strip me of my $7 coffee or tea, take the take-outs away, and I am still comfortable and content. The simpler life suits me just fine. Being at home with my husband, cooking every day, cleaning up together -declaring dishwashing part of his Physical Therapy, because he is still not allowed to lift anything that’s no heavier than a coffee cup. Continue reading →
Now you are sitting at home, your pantry is overflowing with foods you bought for you and your family. The freezer is filled up to the rim, and the refrigerators -yes even the one in the garage- are filled with everything you could get your hands on. Continue reading →
I went to the grocery store yesterday, and the amount of heavily loaded grocery carts people were pushing around shocked me. “Are we the only house with a pantry in our neighborhood?” I wondered. I concentrated on my own shopping list and tried not to be affected by the hoarding behavior around me. Continue reading →
My husband is a picky eater. He searches for fat around the meat and pushes food, which he thinks might not please him, to the side. “I cannot stand the texture of fat,” he says, and I can see the disgust on his face when he looks at my marbled ribeye. Continue reading →