March 22, 2009:
Food. To cook at home with festive and beautiful utensils collected over half a lifetime, one at a time, each for its special quality of speaks-to-me. To frequent a warm restaurant where the staff know you and the food is exceptional.
Gone. Dishes smashed, pots overgrown with green mold, hidden away in a plastic tub deep beneath the cabinets. Restaurants tense with conflict, with sparks flying off her fingers as she stands and paces, uninterested in the meal, interested only in leaving, in moving on to the portion of the day that belongs to her rather than to you.
Addiction as spider web. Once caught, no-one moves.