I started with potatoes because potatoes are the most forgiving. They don’t demand creativity. They don’t require emotional energy. They just sit there and wait for you to decide what to do with them.
I washed two russet potatoes and turned on the light over the sink. The peeler glided over the skin like it had been waiting for this. Thin, perfect strips fell into the basin. No catching. No tearing. No fighting.
It felt stupidly satisfying.
Then I noticed something that made my throat tighten.
There were tiny scratches along the handle—old, shallow marks that looked like someone had tapped a knife point into the metal, again and again, like they were counting. I ran my thumb over them. They weren’t random. They were deliberate.
I don’t know why that hit me so hard. Maybe because it proved this object had belonged to a real person with real habits. Someone had held it enough times to leave evidence behind. Someone had used it in the background of a life.
And for a second, my kitchen didn’t feel like a place where I was hiding. It felt like a place where people had lived.
I made mashed potatoes. Nothing special. Butter, salt, a little pepper. But when I tasted it, I had the most unexpected reaction: I started crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tears dropping into the sink because I realized I hadn’t made a simple meal for myself since the funeral.
It wasn’t about the potatoes.
It was about the fact that I had finally done something for myself that wasn’t transactional.
