Some Lagniappe for my Love Story

We all have a personalized narrative. It is what keeps us humming, what connects our thoughts, and explains what the hell is going on.  Seriously. Each one of us has a typist upstairs that is pumping out new material and causing one to contribute to the play of her life—, and all the while, explaining what the other actors are up to.  It’s what perpetuates the illusion that the Buddhists warn about; it’s what keeps each person tethered to the stage and to some semblance of a common plot. 

I am most aware of my story lines and voice over when I am driving or cooking.  I learned during the hunger games—college—that I needed to cook a big pot or tray of something nutritious once a week.  It was a means to find nourishment and live within my tight budget, $25/week.  Through feast and famine, I still try to make a nutritious something before the week starts. It's what allows vitamins to infiltrate my carbs: breads and beers.

When I’m chopping and cooking, my narrative comes out.  Tonight, I was mincing garlic for a dish that had been destined to be Creole with alligator sausage and smoked chicken. But standing in front of the pantry, I noticed that I had been hoarding various types of marinara.  So I channeled the Barefoot Contessa and made something-yummy-on-pasta. 

With the tip of the knife pushing into the yellow bell pepper, I am at that point when the narrative should start.  In the past, I've had images of sharing this subjectively important information with a girlfriend—as if she were in the room.  This time, I’m at a loss. I don’t hear anything. I feel the thickness of the dead air. At first, I assumed the typist was on a union-approved break, but I waited and nothing.  It should have begun to fill-in the blanks for, "this is what I’m up to" and "this is what it means."  

“I’ve got nothing to say to myself.”

I'm at a loss and it's a good thing. If a new girl were perched on a nearby stool, watching me cook, I wouldn’t be talking about the history of my cooking or what I learned to prep when I lived in Texas, Florida, Georgia, California, or Alabama. I certainly wouldn’t include details about the ingredients I used for Ex#1, #2, or #3.  Those memories have been cataloged with old recipes.  I’d be looking for material that is relevant to the moment.  If I were cooking, with a new girl, there’d be room for her.  We’d be talking about what we are doing during any next now, and what all of it could possibly mean—to me and she.

Clearly, I’ve managed through the necessary four seasons of solitude.  The time has allowed me to sort through most of the old stained cards and put them where they belong.  I’ve got a new recipe to build and a clean index card.  Now, I need to put on my hat and coat and to go to the market.  Only a lover's lagniappe can complete this, and she is the only ingredient that is missing.