I started with potatoes because potatoes are the most forgiving. They don’t demand creativity. They don’t require emotional energy. They just sit there and wait for you to decide what to do with them.
I washed two russet potatoes and turned on the light over the sink. The peeler glided over the skin like it had been waiting for this. Thin, perfect strips fell into the basin. No catching. No tearing. No fighting.
It felt stupidly satisfying.
Then I noticed something that made my throat tighten.
There were tiny scratches along the handle—old, shallow marks that looked like someone had tapped a knife point into the metal, again and again, like they were counting. I ran my thumb over them. They weren’t random. They were deliberate.
I don’t know why that hit me so hard. Maybe because it proved this object had belonged to a real person with real habits. Someone had held it enough times to leave evidence behind. Someone had used it in the background of a life.
And for a second, my kitchen didn’t feel like a place where I was hiding. It felt like a place where people had lived.
I made mashed potatoes. Nothing special. Butter, salt, a little pepper. But when I tasted it, I had the most unexpected reaction: I started crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tears dropping into the sink because I realized I hadn’t made a simple meal for myself since the funeral.
It wasn’t about the potatoes.
It was about the fact that I had finally done something for myself that wasn’t transactional.
The next day I used the peeler on carrots. Then apples. Then a cucumber. The thing was efficient, sharp, and almost aggressively functional. It made food prep feel… manageable. Like a process with a clear start and finish.
And once I started cooking small things, I began noticing other small things. The cabinet hinge that needed tightening. The burned-out bulb in the hallway. The stack of mail I’d been ignoring. The voicemail from my aunt I kept deleting without listening to.
One evening, I found myself staring at the peeler again, then at a paper bag on the counter that I hadn’t opened yet. Inside was something I’d picked up from the thrift store on impulse: a little recipe box.
I opened it, expecting blank cards.
Instead, it was full.
Handwritten recipes. Dozens of them. Neat cursive on stained index cards, some with corners bent, some with flour smudges, some with notes like “too salty—use half” and “Jim likes extra cinnamon.”
And tucked in the back was a card that wasn’t a recipe at all.
It was a list.
Twenty-seven items long.
Each line started the same way: “For when you’re alone, make—”
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