This is what most of my meals look like. It’s a combination of vegetables, protein, carbohydrates, and fat.
I’ve posted about this before, about how I like to eat the same thing every day and how I take comfort in the whole eating process, from preparation to washing up. On one hand, it removes the anxiety of palling what to eat. Unfortunately, it also makes for a monotonous Instagram feed.
My meal of choice has been buttered toast, the butter spread thick then finished off with a light sprinkle of salt, eaten with an egg fried in oil so hot its edges crisp and brown before the yolk has time to fully cook. This has evolved to include some sort of vegetable, either as a salad or included in the tomato sauce the egg is poached in.
This plate, which I enjoyed a week or two ago, is special, because almost everything in it came in a care package. I have been blessed with concerned friends, and this plate is proof. If you’re sick of me writing about it, I am sorry. I write about it so much because it continually astounds me. I’ve always thought of myself as invisible, insignificant. I am glad to have been proven wrong, and I have to document everything so I can look back on these entries when I’m having a bad day and tell myself, “Your inner critic is wrong. You are loved.”
It’s also a good opportunity to tell my friends how they’ve made an impact on my life. I’m not a very touchy-feely person, but I want them to know that they are cherished, even if it’s by someone who doesn’t like to smile and who rarely leaves her house.
But yes, I have this for brunch almost daily. It’s easy to make, and going through the motions calms me. I think I’ve also written about this before. It’s a ritual of sorts: if I can prep this meal, cook it, eat it, and clean it up, I can do anything, even if ‘anything’ is just safely (and sanely) getting through the day.