The Longing after Landing
A kaleidoscope of electric dots filled the tiny window of the plane preparing to land in the night landscape of Los Angeles. It had been a long day of flying and laying over for 9 hours in an unusually cold Philadelphia airport after the trans-Atlantic flight from Dublin and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being in the States again. Those 10 days in two beautiful countries without the constant barrage of billboards, advertising and unwanted news had reminded me that there are more ways to live than in constant agitation. Spending time with my daughter, then my dear friend and her family, I had greatly enjoyed sharing my days with loved ones and was now heading back to an empty abode. My partner is in our second home in Mexico and I have some projects to tend to back in LA but it will be fine, I told myself. My cheery bearded son picked me up at the airport and our yellow fluff ball of golden retriever was thrilled that she might get a second dinner at midnight. I moved into the 100 year old house in 1993 with my ex and my kids grew up here. It’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere and holds the memories of almost half a life. The earth has quaked, fires have blazed, protests, viruses and raids have stymied the city but I and my neighbors have stuck it out. We call it home.
Opening the fridge the next morning I realized I hadn’t planned any food to be available after 4 weeks away. My delicious French Roast was, of course, in plentiful supply but that was about it. Fortunately there was some homemade seeded bread in the freezer which, toasted and smeared with peanut butter, quelled the stomach, but lunch loomed unknown. There were a few frozen meals I took out to thaw for later and I planned a grocery run before midday. But then, it felt really hot and the car wasn’t available so I opted to eat a home delivery which was fairly tasty. Dinner was unremarkable but filled the void.
Finally got to the grocery store and looked around but nothing really appealed. So I got the basics and lived on my personal salads for a couple more days before admitting that I kept feeling empty no matter what I ate. I didn’t even have the usual sugar cravings I get when uncomfortable feelings arise. So what was going on? My home is the same one I left a month ago, the pantry still offers tasty options, my sleep and exercise routine carries on as before. I’m not much of a cook myself, but I’ve always pulled through with healthy options when on my own. Is it the weather? Prolonged jet lag? Unwanted exposure to the news again? I look at my kitchen and see the plates neatly drying in the rack and it occurs to me; I’m the dishwasher. When my partner, who loves to cook, is in town I have clean up duty. Over the past month I was cooked for by him and then traveled where I was cooked for by restaurants, cafes, bakeries and a dear friend. I then came home to an empty kitchen, sans chef. This unidentifiable hunger, this longing, then, is not for any particular food, but rather, the simple act of being fed. I’m heading back to Mexico on Thursday and am looking forward to my next “home” cooked meal.
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