Solo Feast

You start early so the day can be long. Sink water runs warm over your wrists, a private blessing. On the counter: onions lined like little planets, herbs in a glass like a bouquet that smells like memory, butter softening without watching the clock.

No audience, no choreography. Just you and the recipe cards that don’t quite match how you actually cook. The knife does its steady arithmetic—halve, quarter, dice—and the house learns your rhythm: pan to board, board to bowl, bowl to oven. The first sizzle arrives and something inside you lowers its shoulders.

Broth hums on the back burner like a kindly radiator. You talk to it anyway—“take your time”—and it does. Bread cubes toast to patient gold. You listen for the moment the sage stops being leaf and becomes air. The timer is a suggestion; your nose is the timer’s teacher.

You set a small plate for peels and stems, a grace for what doesn’t make it to the table. Thumbs shine with olive oil; you rub it into the turkey like forgiveness. Outside, November keeps its low-watt light; inside, the oven lamp stages its own sunrise. You baste, you breathe, you baste.

There are no debates to referee, no stories you’ve heard a hundred times to nod through. You let the silence be a relative who knows when to arrive and when to step out for a walk. The kitchen’s noises stack into a hymn: whisk against bowl, lid clicking home, the soft applause of parchment.

You taste and adjust without witnesses: a little more acid for the cranberries, a little more salt for the potatoes, a little more mercy for yourself. The table grows one plate at a time: a napkin folded like a quiet bird, a glass that catches afternoon, the good fork because today is not a rehearsal.

When the turkey rests, you rest too. Steam writes kind letters on the window. You plate what you made with two hands and old instructions, and the room smells like a house remembering everyone who ever stood where you stand. You pour something bright, lift the glass, and speak the grace out loud so the walls can hold it:

For warmth.
For enough.
For the quiet work without witnesses.
For learning, finally, to feed yourself.

You eat slowly. You save a plate because that is how you were taught, and because saving space is also a kind of love. After, you wash each dish with the care of returning tools to friends. When the counters are clear and the leftovers labeled, you leave the oven light on, small moon in a tidy sky, and sit in the doorway with your feet on cool tile.

It turns out a feast for one is still a feast. The peace isn’t empty; it has your name on it, spelled correctly, warm.