There’s something quietly defiant about cooking for one.
Not microwaving. Not grazing. Not nibbling over the sink or eating out of a takeout container with the TV on in the background. But really cooking — for yourself. Just you.
There’s a world that whispers (or sometimes shouts) that meals are meant to be shared. That food is a social act, a family affair, a celebration of togetherness. And sure, it can be. But food can also be solitude. Ritual. A quiet reclaiming of the moment.
Cooking for one doesn’t mean you’re lonely. It means you know how to show up for yourself.
You learn what you like. Not what your partner prefers. Not what the kids will tolerate. Not what the cookbook says serves four. You figure out that you like your eggs a little runny, your pasta just barely overdone (don’t tell the Italians), and that roasted garlic belongs on almost everything. You use too much olive oil because you can. You put fresh herbs on your Tuesday lunch because it makes you feel like someone in a movie. You cook what feels good, not what’s expected.
And yes — sometimes it’s a peanut butter sandwich over the sink. That counts too.
There’s no audience when you’re cooking for one. No performance. No pressure to impress or measure up. You can fail gloriously — a burnt pancake, a weird soup — and it doesn’t matter. No one’s watching. That freedom can feel like something sacred.
It can also feel a little strange at first. A little sad, even. Especially if you once cooked for others — a partner, a family, a roommate. The silence after the sizzle can feel louder when there’s no one to pass the salt to. You might miss the clatter of extra plates, the hum of another appetite beside yours.
But in time, that silence can soften. It becomes something else. A space to think. To breathe. To taste.
You realize you don’t have to make big meals to make it meaningful. A single baked sweet potato, drizzled with tahini and a sprinkle of salt. One perfect grilled cheese. A salad that didn’t come from a bag. It doesn’t have to be impressive. It just has to be yours.
Leftovers become love letters from yesterday’s self. The freezer becomes a treasure chest. The fridge holds ingredients that exist for no one else’s craving but your own.
And perhaps most importantly, cooking for one reminds you that you are worth feeding well — not just when someone else is around to see it, but because you exist. Because your body is worthy of nourishment and care, even in the smallest servings.
So set the table if you want to. Or eat on the couch. Light a candle. Don’t. Pour a glass of wine. Or drink fizzy water straight from the bottle. Make something new. Or make the same thing every night for a week because it feels like comfort.
