When I was younger, I lived by myself, then got a cat. Actually, I had several room-mates in between, until I realized that when the roommate’s boyfriend called in sick, and stayed at our place, that he actually lived there. The two of them would get married or engaged, or move out together, but anyway, it would be back to cooking for one for a while again.
Then I met a dashing young man. I was wearing a button that asked, “Is there lust after feminism?” and we discussed that for a while. He told me he had grown up collating and stapling feminist propaganda, and I asked, “What’s your last name again?” and upon hearing the answer I said, “Oh, you’re June’s boy!” and I scooped him right up.
Then cooking for two for seven years, then finally a third. Happy Baby Food Grinder came in very handy. Then cooking for four: June moved to our house before her condo was ready. An affluent 60s baby and a depression baby took turns putting a heel of bread in the bottom of the bag into the garbage (me) and fishing it out again (her): “There’s still some freshness in it!”
Condo ready, June moved out, and our kid’s “renovicted” girlfriend moved in, cooking for four again. I served supper buffet-style, so the sullen young people could sullenly serve themselves and sullenly eat in kid’s bedroom.
Kid and his girlfriend move out, cooking for two. June is finding it too much to live on her own in the condo, moves in with us permanently. Cooking for three. Steak cut in thin strips, nothing too spicy, coffee strong and black. She managed her own breakfast, I came home for lunch (usually leftovers), the three of us around the table for supper.
June kept her healthy appetite until a week or two before she died, early last month. Cooking for two: I have way too many leftovers.