We are excited to announce the winner of the March 2023 Chattanooga Writers’ Guild Monthly Contest is Jennafer Barber with the submission “Will to Cook”.
Writing and reading have always been great loves of Jennafer Barber. Escaping to a new world or creating a world for others to escape to are exciting experiences. Her other loves include pasta, baking, and her two adorable cats. Her dream is to publish a book that others can enjoy and love.
Will to CookThe weight of depression is not conducive to cooking. Eating is essential to survival, I know that. I enjoy food and have shared many wonderful meals with friends and family. However, depression has its own agenda which consists of lying under the covers in the dark, staring numbly at the wall. A few fits of tears and a lot of rumination. Forcing myself to find the will to rise from the comfort of my cohort of pillows and blankets to exert effort in cooking a meal is not an easy task. I will be the first to admit that depression has won many battles over eating, but I’m trying to be different. Better. Kinder to myself.
You would think that having lived with bipolar depression for the past 12 years, I would be well versed in shedding the weight. Although that would be ideal, depressive episodes are not that simple. It starts with a small trigger to get the blues rolling, and this time, it’s another failed relationship. A woman can only take so many heartbreaks after all. Surrounded by people who have a loved one, it’s hard not to cast the blame inwards. A breakup may sound trivial to some, but to those who struggle with mental illness, it can be destructive. I try to brush it off and carry on, but my heart weeps as my brain betrays me by recounting the sweetness of him.
Appetite goes first; grief is filling. Communicating with my friends becomes too much work. My brain convinces me that no one understands the pain that is seeping into my bones. Arriving to work late and blankly staring at my computer as the day slips through my fingers willingly is a daily occurrence. Showering seems like scaling a skyscraper. Impossible. How do I take care of myself when I’m trapped in the abyss? How do I make myself alive again?
My therapist told me to start being my own best friend which sounds too cliché. She said to start doing the things I love again. I love writing and creating worlds with my fingertips. I love baking and sharing my sweet treats with others. Long walks on a breezy day. Losing myself in a riveting book. She said it will take time; I have to start small. Cooking a meal will be my start.
Turns out, starting is hard. I have to muster all my courage and use it to fill the holes in my heart. To motivate me to shrug off the covers and guide my feet to the kitchen, I think of my favorite meal. The phantom smells of basil and oregano begin to fill my nose. The taste of warm marinara and parmesan cheese tempts my tastebuds. My mouth waters at the thought of meatballs and angel hair. I love all pasta, but a classic meal of spaghetti and meatballs not only tastes good, but is simple to make. The perfect meal.
To aid in sticking to making the meal, I turn on mindless children’s animation. The sounds help me to not feel so alone. The cartoon has bright colors and fun music. A little chip in the dark.
Now for the hard part. I stand at the stove debating whether or not this is worth it. There’s an ache in my chest and tears start to blur my vision. But spaghetti is good, I tell myself. I repeat it and wipe the tears. Before I lose my nerve, I grab my biggest pot, fill it with water, and turn the stove on. I pour the salt in and watch the grains swirl around before settling at the bottom. Next, I open my freezer and pull out the bag of frozen meatballs. I know handmade meatballs taste better; my mom used to make them. She would add cubes of cheese in the middle and let me form them into little balls. But my mom isn’t here and this is easier. The meatballs clink when they hit the pan. I rummage through the little drawer next to the stove before pulling out the can opener. It’s solid in my hand. I focus on the smoothness of the handles and cranking the blades. The thick red sauce is mesmerizing as it pours out of the can and floods the meat. My stomach rumbles as I place the lid over the pan and start the timer.
There’s not much to do while waiting for water to boil. I think there’s a saying about that, “a watched pot never boils.” Maybe there’s more to that saying than I realized. Maybe I can’t continue to lay in bed and dream about being happier when I need to make an effort to change. But…effort takes effort, and right now, making spaghetti is draining my remaining dregs for the day. Baby steps.
My mind drifts in the waiting. I want to think of him, to dream of us together again. My hands begin to tremble, the burning in my nose sparking tears in my eyes. The water is boiling now. Steam escapes in steady streams from the sides of the lid. Large bubbles rapidly crash to the surface. Tears wet my cheeks in rivulets. I stare at the boiling water for a moment, trying to force myself into motion. I feel stuck. Frozen. Physically and metaphorically. The tiny voice in the furthest part of my brain yells in encouragement. It tells me to keep going. The tears continue, but so do I.
After tearing it open, I upend the pasta box and let the thin noodles find their way into the hot water. Half go limp while the other half is being clumsily maneuvered under the water. The meatballs are boiling at this moment, too. Marinara sauce splatters the inside of the lid. Slowly, I lift the lid and give the meatballs a good stir. The apartment smells of rich pasta sauce and spices. The warmth from the stove hugs me tight. I neglect to stir the noodles enough, so when I dump them into my white strainer, clumps accompany the thin strands. Good thing I like the clumps. I give the strainer a few shakes before letting the noodles plop back into the pot. Butter tends to make things better, so I cut off a couple tablespoons and stir it into the steaming pile. The timer beeps to indicate the meatballs are finished cooking. I switch off the burners and start to dish out the food.
My plate is loaded with buttery angel hair drowned in red sauce, adorned with a healthy serving of meatballs, and topped with parmesan cheese. When I take my first bite, I feel better. The tears have dried, my heart still aches, the pain is still a resident in my soul, but the tears have dried.
.
Congratulations, Jennafer!
The Monthly Contests rotate through a pattern of Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction throughout the year, with a new theme each month.
Go to the 2023 Monthly Contest Series Info page to view the genre and theme for each month.
This contest is free to enter for members of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. To become a member, click HERE.