Free Good Enough to Eat by Stacey Ballis

I know it will be weird and probably uncomfortable at times, I also know it will be okay. At least, I want to believe that I know this.
    “We’ll be okay,” she says.
    “Yeah.”
    “I’ll take my stuff to my room.”
    I think about it. “Leave it for now, I’m starving. How do you feel about pancakes?”
    “Love them.”
    “Perfect.”

RISOTTO

    I hate those books where the heroine faces loss and desperation with a total lack of appetite. Because when my husband announced that he was leaving me for my former friend, when he admitted, with not nearly enough regret in his voice, that he had been sleeping with her for nearly two years while I toiled at the gym in an effort to save my own life after full days of school and finally opening the store . . . all I wanted was food. The binge was epic. Five pounds in ten days, junk food and takeout, anything fried or salty or sweet that I could get my hands on. On the eleventh night of my abandonment, sitting in my huge living room surrounded by Andrew’s art collection, I broke down. I sobbed until my sides ached and my cheeks were chapped. And when I was spent, I took a long hot shower, and then went to the kitchen to cook for myself. I focused on deep, slow breaths as I chopped an onion and grated Parmesan. I heated the chicken stock, and stirred the rice, and watched as the grains that were separate and distinct joined together, bonded, became a unified whole. I was undone, unconnected, but at least dinner came together. I stirred in the cheese, some parsley, some lemon zest. I ate it all, cradling the warm bowl to my bosom like a life preserver.
     
     
    “I’d like to propose a toast.” I’m trying to gather my thoughts as I look down at my champagne flute. “When I first found out that I had to lose weight for my health, I was terrified. Not that I couldn’t do it. I knew that I could and would. But I was afraid I would never eat another decent meal again!”
    The assembled group laughs. I look around the room. Kai and Phil are standing, Kai nestled in the crook of Phil’s arm in the most natural and loving pose. Delia is sitting at a table with Benny, her favorite customer, an enormous wall of a woman with skin the exact color of chocolate pudding. Benny comes in at least once a week to tell us that she has lost a half a pound, and then buys half the display case. She is always smiling, always has a funny story about her boyfriend, Andre, a slight, light-skinned man, who sometimes stops in to pick up something to surprise her with. Nadia and Janey are sitting at the other table with Carey, who flew in for the occasion, and about ten other people are scattered around.
    I take a deep breath and continue. “The idea for this store was a lifeline for me. I knew that I had to eat healthy to continue to live, but I also knew that food still had to be a delight for me if I wanted any life in that living. When I bemoaned the lack of a place like this to Carey”—I raise my glass at her and she smiles and raises hers back at me—“she told me if there wasn’t a place that was the right place, I should make one. And so I did. But I could never have done it without you. One year ago today, on a blustery March morning with a blizzard on the horizon, I walked through those doors for the first time, and I knew that this was the right space. Six months later, Dining by Design was open for business. Kai was here with me”—I tilt my glass at him and he makes a small bow—“and he brought a bottle of champagne and a bottle of bourbon, figuring that we would either be celebrating or commiserating at the end of the day. Janey was the first one to come in the door.” I smile over at her and she grins back. “And she was literally jumping up and down at what we had to offer and promised to send all her clients, and came back again at the end of the day and helped us drink that bottle of champagne. We have had plenty of days when we broke out that bottle of bourbon, but