Rekindling an appetite for life
My body started to feel thin, worn out. In a wish to learn something new, I had gone through all my reserves, and it was showing. Stress and the need to suppress my anger had made me lose my appetite, my ability to swallow and digest. I had kept my engine going on adrenaline and an iron will. Now, it was finally time to rest, and recover.
The tradeoffs that had come with the opportunities of the past months had left some sadness inside of me, some coldness, the longing to cocoon and curl up. My hunger started to return, sometimes very violently so. My appetite, however, still lingered. As if the eating would not serve any purpose, only more hardship, and for now I was too tired and unwilling to take in anything but happy things, happy people and American dreams finally coming true. To say I binge-watched Sex and the City, would be an understatement.
I wasn’t too alarmed this time. I had dealt with situations like this before, worse too, so that by now I knew, I needed nothing but rest, time and some gentle love and care.
No matter my efforts to come to peace with the situation, I mostly felt anger. I still wanted so much more from life, and I was blaming myself for the shortcoming results. Even if I was grateful for all the opportunities I had been given, for everything I had learned, I felt betrayed by my own limitations. Was this all? So much work still to be done before I would reach a point, reminiscent of what I considered to be a good place.
For now, however, I had run out of all energy and life could just go fuck itself. My rage was running its course, and part of me even enjoyed the storm going on inside. As if the headwind recognized my feelings, released their charge and calmed me down, blowing away the excess heat, before slowly turning into a cool and gentle breeze, showing me the first signs of a new sun rising at the horizon.
The next day, I woke up, determined to make myself a happy breakfast. The kind that would satisfy me, not leave me wanting for more happiness later. The kind that would remind me of happy films and all the happy restaurants and happy kitchens I would be sitting right now, if I would have already had all the things that I had been dreaming of for so long.
The kind of kitchen where the entering sunlight brings out the rich colours of the flowers on the table in the otherwise cool and gentle space. The kind of restaurant where people go early to wake themselves up with the smell of freshly baked bread and melting butter and the sounds of grinding coffee beans and stylish cups. To feel the buzz of the other guests exchanging ideas, sharing happy and sad moments, their dreams. To feel the promise of a new day.
In such a restaurant, I would want something nourishing and festive. I wanted vitamins and minerals and fibres, rich flavours, magic touches and something that would digest well and gently. For the food to nourish me and leave me happy still after eating.
The things in my cupboard did not disappoint, to say the least. Leftover sourdough rye bread–French style, so rather mild, unlike the more sour German bread. It had become rock hard and I wanted to experiment with it, seeing whether I could turn it into something delicious again. I had eggs, part of the basic essentials. Cinnamon, likewise. And even, a package of cooked beetroots, cocoa powder, dark chocolate and some hazelnuts, the latter two left from a trip across the German border where I found them cheaper and better quality too.
I had some fresh orange zest in a glass jar in the fridge, grated off an organic orange some days ago, a week? How long had it been? I smelled, checked the colour, still seemed alright. It would be delicious with the rye and the chocolate and the hazelnuts and the beetroot, or any odd combination of them.
I also had some milk to soften any acidity from the rye bread and beets. In the freezer–I feel almost ashamed for the luxury of them–some frozen bilberries. They took me back to the holidays in the French Vosges and the myrtilles I plucked there, the tarte aux myrtilles I ate, generously filled, on top of the mountain. Very different from the American blueberries you mostly find in the stores, smaller, tarter. This was going to be some pain perdu!
Another thing I have come to love, making myself coffee. If only for the smell of it. I once started drinking it not for the coffee but for the foam on cappuccinos. Like sipping into a cloud. These days, I like lungos, with some milk in a little jug on the side, then pouring it into the coffee until it turns the right colour.
At home, I shake some ground coffee out of the package into a French press. Then, I pour over the hot water, slightly off the boil, so as to make sure not to burn the coffee. You can see a silky, cream-coloured foam forming on top. I carefully place on the lid, the filter on the surface of the coffee with the piston up in the air.
In the meantime, I select my cup, depending on the cups around and adapted to my mood, cosily English, elegantly French, passionately Italian, comfortably German, creatively Greek. Then I warm up some milk. Sometimes I even warm up the cup, either with hot water or in the microwave. By then, the coffee has brewed and I can press the piston of the coffee press, slowly bringing down the filter. I put everything on a tray and bring it to the breakfast table, or, alternatively, to my desk to start working.
Once seated–though I usually forget something from the kitchen (a little chocolate!), so that I need to get back up after–I pour the coffee from the press, watching the thin dark brown stream of coffee slowly filling my cup, set off by the cream-coloured foam pouring out with it. I stir in the milk with a spoon. Not really necessary, but I enjoy the sound and the look of the spoon.
Somehow, I revel in this. As if it brings me peace, a moment where I do not think of all the things lacking, of all the things I’m not capable of, or not yet. Making breakfast, preparing and serving a cup of coffee, are things I not only enjoy, but also master very well, in a physical way. Maybe it brings me hope, faith for the future. That there is a place for me, or that I can create it myself just the way I like it. And for the lack of company, it makes me enjoy being on my own. It fills my senses and with it come the first hints of my returning appetite and all the things I want from life.
Photos taken in Brussels, Liège and Maastricht. I thank the shops for their beautiful displays and inspiration.
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