A week of not wanting to eat

I'm now starting my second re-heated chicken enchilada. Here was my recipe:

2 chicken breasts, boneless
1 (I don't know how many ounces) Campbell's condensed cream of chicken soup
A half a jar (I don't know how many ounces) Chi Chi's... I don't know the temperature... salsa. It was probably as mild as I could buy it, because of my cousin's stomach.
About 1/8 jar Ortega Medium sauce
1/2 onion, chopped
Take the Betty Crocker Cookbook's recipe for fajita seasoning. Then halve it.
Tortillas. I don't care which size. This time, I used soft taco size. I made six.

Compose the ingredients in whichever way makes sense to you.

I made them last night. They were too spicy for my cousin, so he only ate one. I ate two, and put the rest in the fridge. I'm up at 1:15 in the morning, watching an idiotic movie with Jennifer Lopez in it, and, as I said, just reheated my second enchilada.

It's the first time I've been actually hungry in almost a week.

I've been debating... with myself, and with my cousin -- who follows my blog -- about whether to share the following information. He thought I shouldn't. I think I should, because it explains the only reason why I've never been hungry (thus, wanting to cook) in my entire life: grief.

The first time I lost my appetite, I was 11 years old. I had just experienced losing someone to death. A classmate of mine had been thrown off the top floor of a parking garage by his mother. She threw off his brother too. Then she jumped. A week later, my maternal grandmother passed. My parents thought I was having a growth spurt... in actuality, I'd lost almost 15 pounds.

In recent memory, it was when my ex started ignoring me over a year ago. I thought that, by losing weight, I'd impress him. He didn't notice, even after I lost 25 pounds. I had developed a bit of a neurotic eating habit: not eating until I made dinner... and I'd give him heaping portions, plus whatever I "couldn't finish."

Of course, I couldn't eat after he left, either. Fortunately, the presence of my cousin has helped inspire me to at least cook. The smell of what I was cooking and the positive reinforcement of my cousin's compliments helped me eat, even in the midst of my grief.

This week, something else happened.

I won't go into too much detail about the event itself, but in regard to my meals, I've messed up at least two side dishes and two main dishes in the meantime. I completely forgot to season a steak, I overseasoned the chicken enchiladas, I overseasoned garlic mashed potatoes, and my roasted potatoes tonight were really soft. I tried to wing potato skins tonight, because D. loves them and dinner was running late (not compared to dinner last night, which was executed at about 11:30 p.m.), but I didn't bake the potatoes beforehand. I ended up with burnt potatoes with cheese and bacon on them.

D. praised everything. I figured that, because he had a slab of red meat and two starches (roasted potatoes [that were soft... maybe he didn't notice] and the lifetime-supply-because-I'm-from-Indiana corn on the cob), his saying of "I can't critique perfect" was easily founded.

In my opinion, grief makes me a bad eater and a bad cook. It makes me care less about food.

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