During a Tough Divorce, This Salad Helped Me Embrace Singlehood

This is All on the Table, a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community.

French toast was the first thing he cooked for me. It was made from banana bread he’d baked the day before, drenched in butter and syrup, bacon and eggs on the side. I’m not a breakfast person, and I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I went back for seconds. Though I was a 27-year-old food writer, I wasn’t very good at feeding myself. Most days I ignored my body’s hunger signals until I could barely function, then splurged on pizza or enchiladas from the Tex-Mex place around the corner. So of course I fell for the burly Midwesterner who let me sleep in while he threw together a grandiose meal.

I had yet to receive a diagnosis for my ADHD, and I assumed my complicated relationship with food was one of many character flaws, along with tardiness and impulsivity. I figured I’d outgrow it all. In the meantime I was pretty content living in a cheap, massive prewar apartment in a part of Kansas City that, 15 years ago, had just enough vacant real estate and take-out options for someone allergic to roommates, real jobs, and meal prep. I’d talked the landlord into letting me paint the cabinets a cheery robin’s-egg blue; since I was about to max out my credit card, I believed a mini renovation would motivate me to cook more often. It sort of worked. I started making my own dressing for my salad bar hauls, and once or twice a week, I dined on homemade roasted brussels sprouts and red wine. It was exactly what I wanted, and wholly satisfying.

When I was with Breakfast Guy, a more grown-up future felt within reach—one in which I could weather life’s challenges alongside a kind, bearded partner whose company I truly enjoyed. We shared the same taste in music, a love for the mountains, and a willingness to overspend on good meals. After three months of dating, he moved in. Our default arrangement worked for us: He cooked and I cleaned. And I still got to spend a few nights doing my own thing, plus some nights feasting with my man.

Lovestruck (and probably a little anemic), I gladly abandoned my salads and veggie bowls for his bacon cheeseburgers, cheddar-filled brats, and double-cut pork chops, served with some sort of potato and dessert. His dedication to decadence was endearing, as were the late-night nachos he made if I even hinted at being hungry.

I was full. Of pork, mashed potatoes, gratitude, love.

It was my idea to cut into a whole roast pig instead of a cake at our wedding, and after we ate our way down the West Coast at restaurants we’d read about for years like Beast, Chez Panisse, and Mission Chinese. But as soon as the honeymoon ended, something shifted between us. I worked up the nerve to broach the subject and was surprised when he told me he’d expected we’d eat together most nights, if not every night. He also wanted me to take charge of dinner more often.

I’d been working late at my publishing job and was thrilled when I could come home, pick at leftovers, and snuggle up to my new husband on the couch. And it was no secret that I got overwhelmed by the idea of preparing two people’s sustenance on a set schedule. Still, I wanted to be a good partner, and I was flattered (if slightly annoyed) by his desire for more quality time. So I acquiesced. It seemed easier than addressing the fact that we’d never had an actual conversation about the care, space, and attention we needed from each other.

My roast chickens didn’t eliminate the tension permeating our home, and eventually I accepted that marriage was just supposed to be hard.

When we welcomed a baby, I focused all my domestic energy on keeping a tiny human alive. Lactation issues and postpartum anxiety nearly broke me. My body craved fresh greens, but I didn’t have it in me to throw anything together. Every time my husband handed me a plate of something hearty he’d cooked, I got a fleeting sense of being in one of those “us against the world” partnerships I thought I’d signed up for.

Then, six years into my marriage, I was diagnosed with ADHD. This explained why I had trouble sticking to routines or starting seemingly simple tasks. It didn’t magically undo a lifetime of self-loathing, but I did learn to give myself some much-needed grace. I hoped my husband would too. Instead, we burned through couples counselors, focusing on my neurodivergence as the sole source of our struggles. In those rooms I came to understand that if I wanted a happy family, I needed to be a lot less…me.

I hardly recognized the person I saw in the mirror by the time I turned 41. Now with two small children, a full-time job, a book project, and a troubled marriage, I felt like I was in a never-ending game of Whac-A-Mole. I wore the same stale sweats for days, had no social life to speak of, and was ridiculously jealous of the unglamorous hotel rooms my husband had to himself as he traveled frequently for work. Something had to change, though I wasn’t sure what.