The day my husband didn’t wake up, my desire to eat disappeared. 

Anyone who suddenly loses a spouse faces an elaborate menu filled with life-altering decisions. Eating is on the back-burner. Even though I had a dozen home-cooked meals in the freezer, they were prepared for him, not me.

While caring for my husband, we ate most meals separately. He’d forage in the middle of the night. I stuck to a schedule of breakfast and a late lunch. 

Once he died, my appetite changed. I began eating pickled herring over the sink or dumped a can of tuna, water and all, over a bag of lettuce. A can of creamed corn and crackers was a meal. Sometimes I had soup for breakfast. Simple fare. No fuss. Few dishes.

The grocery store became hostile territory. I put two baskets of grape tomatoes in my cart, then took them out. BOGOs were out of the question—too much food for one person. I hesitated near the Brussels sprouts. These were my favorite, not his. Did I even want to cook? 

I only needed six eggs. The small half-dozen package in my cart announced to the world that I was on my own.

I needed protein, so I bought a steak and a potato. I thought of my oven. When had I turned it on last?

In the past, I spent every Sunday making meals for the week—beef curry, chicken parmesan, shepherd’s pie, etc. Fresh bread and steamed vegetables completed the menu.

When life settled down, I examined my kitchen. I threw the tablecloth away. It was the backdrop where I signed the police report detailing my husband’s death.  

I opened the cupboard that held empty bread pans and discovered they were the exact size of my feet—perfect for a soak before a pedicure.

Soon, cookie sheets served as a space to sort buttons for sewing projects. 

Seven months later, I turned on the dusty stove. Yes. Dusty. Unaccustomed to cooking, rice noodles boiled over the neglected pot. 

Maybe I would eat my meals out. Before I tried that, I talked to an old family friend in Tennessee. He lost his wife eight years before. At restaurants, he dreaded asking for a table for one. From Florida, I texted that I wish I was there sitting beside him.

This new friend and I had been in long-term marriages. We often took having built-in dinner companions for granted. 

Loneliness a privilege? To cook for myself? Wash all the accumulated dishes in a silent house? 

I found solace in a book.

The essays celebrate the idiosyncratic and sometimes bizarre meals people created in their solitude. Cooking for one could be an adventure! No more eating over the sink. Use the best China! Light a candle! 

Go to a restaurant!

Solitary dining was something to learn and embrace.

Just when I was getting the hang of eating out and cooking for one, the widower I mentioned earlier, proposed.

We were given aprons as a wedding gift.

Soon, we will make a steak dinner together—frozen petite peas for me and steamed broccoli for him.

Now, when we go out, my husband happily tells the wait staff,

“Table for two.”