One of the perks to living alone is that no one else has to eat your cooking. In fact, you really don’t have to cook at all if you don’t feel like it. You can eat cereal for dinner if you want to; I do that sometimes, or periodically make myself scrambled eggs and toast. Tonight I have been cooking a 16-bean soup using a hambone that my sister gave me last week (after we’d enjoyed a lovely dinner of ham, sweet potatoes and vegetables.) The soup is okay, definitely missing something that I can’t quite put my finger on. Bean soup, by it’s nature can be a little bland unless you make intentional efforts to spice it up. I want it to be flavorful, not hot-spicy, so I have been dumping various spices into it (odd ones like cardamom, coriander, and tumeric) trying to bring it a little more to life. Still, even if it were to turn out awful, it’s likely that no one is going to be eating it but me.
I am grateful this evening to be standing pretty steadily now that I’ve lived alone for the first time in my life. Honor might protest my statement that I live alone, so I will amend that to say it’s the first time in my life I am living without another human companion. I must confess that as I was preparing to move here from California, knowing I would be living alone, I was nervous. Not nervous, afraid. I was afraid that I would sit in my house feeling sorry for myself and become a depressed, miserable, hermit. While my current life is still somewhat low-key and I have yet to develop much in the way of a social life, I do manage to function relatively well. I spend time each weekend with one of my three sisters, usually my younger sister, Ruth, and manage to occupy myself with a variety of pursuits that, albeit solitary, are satisfying in their own right. And as the weather warms from the chill of winter to the bright, warm days of spring and the daylight lengthens, I’ve no doubt I will get out and about more, exploring various parks and natural areas nearby.
One thing I have missed is proximity to the “big water” of the San Francisco Bay. A number of people have suggested to me that I go to the Chesapeake Bay, which indeed qualifies as relatively big water. I imagine I’ll head down to see sometime this summer, but the Chesapeake Bay is at least 40 minutes away, unlike the San Francisco Bay, which was 15 minutes away from where I lived, and the San Pablo Bay, which is part of the larger Bay area was even closer. Still, I plan to do some exploring in the area–Great Falls, about a half hour drive from my house is at the top of my list of places to visit in the next few weeks once spring has truly settled in. When I asked my sister about Great Falls she confirmed that it is a place I would likely enjoy (while I’m not quite sure why the falls are considered “great,” it looks like it will fill the bill for a good water spot.) In the shorter term, I might drive myself and Honnie down to Rock Creek park and find a nice place where I can sit by the creek and listen to the voices of the water. Before I discovered the Pacific Ocean, I was a big fan of creeks and rivers. Whether I explore the waters alongside my family or solo, I’m looking forward to reconnecting to them.
Mount Tamalpais from Cesar Chavez Park, San Francisco Bay
I am learning that living alone is not as I had feared it would be, and not too different than the last few months I lived in California with my son. His work schedule and mine meant that, though we technically lived under the same roof, we rarely spent much meaningful time together. Still there was something even in the possibility of seeing him that made me aware that I was not living alone, and the periodic disappearance of food reminded me that I was still, at a small level, providing sustenance for two humans (and one canine.) Now my food stays where I leave it and no one gobbles up the cereal or eats or drinks the last of anything. I’ve had a lone bottle beer in my refrigerator from a six-pack I brought with me when I moved here in October. I don’t drink beer; my daughter enjoyed a couple of them when she visited me in December. The last one will sit there in the fridge until she or my son come back to visit or I offer it to some random person.
I’ve always lived with somebody. I lived in my parent’s house with various siblings until I went away to college in 1975. When I went to graduate school I had a roommate and then a succession of suite mates, apartment mates and condo mates over the next several years. At one point I lived with six other women in a three-bedroom apartment. (Don’t ask.) I got married in 1986 and started a family, and even though I was divorced in 1998, I still didn’t live alone. I was single, but lived with my two kids and a dog. I had one other significant relationship until that ended two years ago, but even then I still lived with my son. So I don’t have any prior experience at living alone. All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well. Time will tell, of course, but for now I’m grateful to be getting accustomed to being on my own and enjoying my own company.
A little while ago I puttered back into the kitchen to turn the fire off under the soup. Over the 90 or so minutes it had been cooking, the liquid had transformed from a thin, watery gray to a rich, savory-looking golden brown and the taste was amazing. My last desperate spicing, during which I added more tumeric, cardamom, and a little cumin turned the trick. When I took an tentative spoonful and tasted it, I was pleasantly surprised; it’s amazing how that dash of cumin and the additional dashes of the other spices suddenly popped to life. Even though I don’t have anyone else to please, I’m glad it turned out well. I can’t wait to enjoy a bowl tomorrow.
