This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
CW: in this post I mention eating disorders and food.
'We need red peppers.' My words trail as I speak and drop my eyes to the next item on the list.
'These?'
I raise my head away from the piece of paper to look at my partner holding a bell pepper. 'No. The long ones.' She grab the plastic bag encasing the long peppers.
We go through the list one by one. We have a list for a soup recipe and one for a tofu rice recipe. The soup is a 'Restorative soup for dragons with a cold or influenza', gleaned from Anne Louise Avery's stories of Old Fox, Wolf, Pine Marten, Badger, and friends. I am drawn to the world she creates, one that is a kinder than our own, slower than our own, one that offers dreams and comfort.
My cadence is slow this afternoon. I have walked out of the car with my stick. My steps are more of a shuffle and I probably should be at home but it is good to feel some agency. We are here to shop for dinner and lunch for the following day. The fridge is mostly empty and the food delivery not due in for another three days.
'Cream. Get the Oatly one. The Alpro one is going to be too liquid for this.' My partner disappears into the crowded isles behind me whilst I dip into the World section in search of Japanese spices. I don't expect to find them here but decide to try my luck anyway. The shelves are full of soya sauce, noodles, chili sauce, and pre-prepared overly expensive dishes. No spices. It's okay. We can make do with what we have at home.
'They have this,' my partner announces as she finds me in the central corridor of the shop. She holds a cup from a brand I don't usually care for.
'Did they have other stuff too?' She nods and we make our way to the cream. The one I had in mind is not on the shelves. It's possible it has been discontinued. We keep my partner's selection and I grab another one I trust to work for certain.
We amble to the tills with our supplies and return to the car. Back home, my partner settles into the living room to catch-up on the skiing with a cup of tea and I make my way to the study for a few moments of rest with pen and paper.
Later, I walk down to the kitchen, put on some music, and assemble the ingredients for the soup. It strikes me how easy and joyful it all feels. I used to spend hours in the various kitchens of my life. I would browse my favourite cooking websites, bookmark endlessly, and try new recipes whenever I could. One day, all this stopped. I carried on cooking but it turned utilitarian and repetitive. I lost the motivation to seek recipes online. I allocated my kitchen time to other activities and didn't realise I was losing my love of cooking.
Since I received my Long Covid diagnosis, my love of cooking has returned to my life. It's a wonderful gift when everything else I love feels like it's slipping away, but it is not a gift that comes alone. Alongside it, the old voices of my (never diagnosed but always suspected by me) eating disorder return. The voices have never fully gone away. It's hard to shut them up entirely when they have followed me for the whole of my life, from the advertisements all around me to the scales of the doctor's office via conversations with friends. None of those voices were ever right and I know this. I know this better today. I am more able to fight them, but I am still weak to them. I know how easy it would be for me to control every morsel of food I eat again, so I am careful. I dance a careful dance with the voices and reason. I juggle some complicated arithmetic that makes sense to no one but me and it works. I get to cook. I get to eat. I get to keep the voices at arm's length as I learn to eat for a body that doesn't cycle 16 to 20 miles on a daily basis, for a body that spends days lying on the sofa or sitting in the study. I know this is not great. In an ideal world, I would be able to enjoy food without the cunningly devised arithmetic that allow me not to feel guilt at a piece of cake.
Today, none of this weighs on my mind. None of the recipes I'm planning to cook contain triggering ingredients. I chuck the chopped vegetables (the size of a dragon's lower tail scales) in a pan greased with oil and watch them melt. I cascade the smoked paprika and chili flakes over them and watch the pan turn bright red. My nose prickle at the chili. I take a step back and dance out of time with the music. My body feels alive and free. The aching pinch in my right leg has loosened thanks to the cream I applied on my return home. It's probably only an illusion of relief. I have no doubt the pain will return but right now I do not care.
I pour the stock over the vegetables and add the canned tomatoes. The liquid is so red it almost hurts to look at it after months of muted life in the world beyond the windows.
The soup simmers for half an hour. I check on it every now and again but mostly forget it as I join my partner on the sofa. The skiing programme is over and one of the endless Columbo reruns streams on the screen. My partner is not paying it much attention, her eyes focused on an article on her phone. I slump on the free side of the sofa and open the book I've got on the go. I read slowly until the timer beeps to grab my attention.
I return to the kitchen to whizz the bright red soup. I try it without the cream. The chili and ginger burn the back of my throat and send me on a coughing fit. I add the cream and watch the red turn orange as the cream swirls under the motion of the electric mixer. I try the soup again. The spices are still strong but there is a rounded mellowness to them. I call my partner to try the soup. I think this will be too hot still for her.
She dips a spoon in and puts it in her mouth. Instantly she starts to cough and goes for the fridge. She takes yoghurt out and swallows a large spoon to relieve the burn. 'Too hot,' she splutters when the fiery sensation eases.
'Well it is a soup for dragons after all.' I smirk and she glares at me but I can see she does not mean it. 'Shall we watch a movie before cooking dinner?'
'Sure.'
We brew a cup of tea each before retiring to the living room. The fiery soup cools, the silken tofu meant for dinner is warming out of the fridge, and the house is filled with aromas of sweet peppers, tomatoes, and the tingle of hot chili, and I am content.