A month of 25 meals alone

There I was, sitting at my table, with the house so messy that it felt like a hurricane had gone through it. Or even a volcano that had burst into flames, scattering ashes everywhere. But that did not bother me, as the fact that I would be alone for a month did. There were some friendly visits planned, yet that was for such a brief time that I did not even count them as real, as the idea that I would have to eat at least 25 dinners all alone made me sick to my stomach.

For a brief moment, I wished I could return to Latvia, where I could meet those few friends I had there, but then I looked outside the window and smiled as I realized that I did not wish that at all. No. What I did wish was to be here, in Lyon, in my apartment overlooking our favorite pizzeria and on the crossroads of two streets, which meant I could look in almost all directions, admiring the city I fell in love with ten years ago.

I got myself up and dried those few tears I had before. I was already missing my family even though a day before, I wished they would vanish that instant. And just a few hours after our parting at 5 am—feeling alone like no other time. I wished to hug them, squeeze them, and hear them argue with me and each other—a luxury I would not have the pleasure to have for 30 days.

I changed into something a bit more comfortable, and the frantic cleaning, which ended seven days later, started. I had no need to go for a run or do workouts, as in the heat of summer, with +30 degrees cleaning every corner of the house, I was working out all I had, only at 6 pm each day, realising that I had to stop, wash, dress, and make dinner. For one.

Yes. Those dinners, for one. They were the hardest at the beginning. Now, as I am on day thirteen, they have become more acquainted but are still slightly lonely. It is good that I have a pizzeria downstairs, where I can hear people talking, making me feel like I am almost one of them there. It is good that there are movies to watch. There are books to read and thoughts to think (yet those tend to exaggerate the situation). There are cats and a dog to talk to (one becomes that person with time, funny enough).

For a person who has traded many invitations to events and parties for dinners at home as the most sacred thing, it is not easy to be alone and eat alone all this time. To be unable to escape (well, Gatsbys routine is holding me back from that) whenever you wish to. Yet, the great outcome is that the house is almost brand new (renovated, as Emily said), book reading is taking another speed, meditations are my best friends, and work is being done like no other time.

And. From those first days when I did not wish to bake anything, feeling sad and miserable, I have seen the light in baking again, making my neighbors and people around hopefully happy. Now, instead of pretending to enjoy time alone, I actually do enjoy it most of the time. But, in the swirl of these emotions, one thing has stayed the same - I have cooked a nice meal for myself every single evening, finding joy in the fact that I can eat all I wish, from eggplants and fennels to haricots and paprika adding as much spiciness as my body desires and mixing it all with meats and fish that I crave for.

So here, next to other recipes I share on the website, are those I have cooked just for me. With no precise measurements, as that is an inspirational process every evening, yet with my deepest desire that it will inspire you too.