I have a new sous-chef: His name is Trader Joe, and he’s helping me learn to cook as a widow

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It’s all about the pan.

I am not a fan of eggs. Once in a while I might snack on a hard-boiled one, but not often and usually it is only if there aren’t any other snack options. 

My grandson Dodger, though, is quite a fan. Not of the firm, ready-to-be- peeled variety, but early on he was introduced to poached eggs by my late husband, Michael, and he became obsessed with “Pops’” eggs. Nobody, he claimed, could duplicate that soft, slightly-runny-yolk egg dish. Pops’ were the best. And the toast they were carefully placed on had to be sourdough. 

As soon as Dodger was big enough to help cook, he did. In the early days, that meant he had to stand on a stool. As he grew, he could stand next to Pops and use the big spoon with all of the holes in it to scoop out the eggs and slide them onto the golden brown toast. 

Michael always told me it was all about the pan. 

It had to heat up evenly, not wobble on the stove, and be nonstick. That pan, my pan, got a lot of use whenever Dodger was around. And even when he wasn’t, Michael loved to cook up a couple of poached eggs for himself on the weekends. I purchased the pan years ago, but it soon became Michael’s pan. 

Sometimes, on a Saturday morning while I was still in bed, I would hear Michael open the cupboard where the pots and pans are stored and I would know that he was getting ready to poach. That always meant that he had also started the coffee. 

Climbing out of my cocoon, I would make my way to the kitchen so happy to know that my morning caffeine fix would be waiting. 

With Michael gone and Dodger mostly in Los Angeles with his mom, a dozen eggs lasts me weeks and weeks. Sometimes they get tossed because they have been sitting for so long I am surprised they haven’t hatched. The pan sits waiting to be used for weeks and weeks. After Michael died in February, months passed between uses. 

But then, not long ago, I became hungry. 

It has taken me a while to figure out just how to cook for myself. I have had little appetite, and at first cooking for one seemed to be a waste of time. But I have grown tired of cheese and crackers, popcorn and yogurt smoothies, and I’ve decided I need an upgrade in my eating. 

So I went to Trader Joe’s and I began to explore their frozen food section. Eureka!

I loaded up my cart with so many different kinds of frozen bags of saucy pasta that the clerk asked if I was having company. Just the opposite, I thought, but didn’t say. I mean, let him imagine a big, noisy family waiting for me back home. And while I know pasta is an easy thing to cook from scratch, the variety in the Trader Joe’s freezer exceeds my recipe repertoire.

On my way home, I realized I should incorporate some protein into my dinner experiment, so I picked up a whole roasted chicken. 

That evening, I dug Pops’ pan from the bottom shelf of the cupboard, wiped it out in case there might have been dust, and began to create something that would hopefully inspire me to eat more like an adult than a teenager.

I poured myself a cocktail, turned on some music and got cooking. It was a success. I enjoyed watching the frozen chunks of sauce begin to melt and coat the pasta, I added whatever struck my fancy and appreciated how the kitchen began to smell like someone had remembered it was dinnertime. I actually looked forward to eating. 

A small miracle.

Now, every few days, I try out a new combo. Sweet potato gnocchi with chicken and a couple of handfuls of super greens was a hit. Fiocchetti with pink sauce, chicken, some frozen peas and again, a healthy dose of super greens.

My cooking has been so successful that my widow friends, Becky and Lindsey, pop over often to share my doctored Trader Joe’s creations. 

I feel like I am making progress in a small way when it comes to how to live alone. 

And I feel Michael, every time I take the pan out and place it on the stove, just like he used to do. He is there with me, telling me, “Eat! Eat!” 

Because he knows how hard this journey is. He knows I need strength to continue on.