You know the drill: Boy meets Girl. Girl falls in love with a fantasy. Reality hits and relationship implodes.
My heartbreaker was Puck, a sports medicine specialist, seafood aficionado, and sex-pert all rolled into one. At six feet tall, with massive pecs, trim waist, and an ass as tight as a clenched fist, Puck was the kind of man who could make even his pink dress shirt look macho. He didn’t walk; he did a body-builder strut, the kind of stiff swagger seen on the likes of Sylvester Stallone. In fact, Puck resembled Rocky with his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp and a rough, gruff voice.
The Canadian cutie encouraged me to experiment. He taught me that eating wasn’t only for nourishment; it was a carnal, visceral, sensual experience. Puck filled my stomach—then he broke my heart.
Everyone has dated—and been dumped by—a Puck. And everyone finds a way to cope with the loss of love. Some knit. Some meditate. Some journal. Some drink. I took refuge in the kitchen. My goal: to recreate the meals I shared with Puck and heal my heart in the process.
As I baked and broiled my way through my former flame’s favorite dishes, other memorable men and the meals I shared with them came to mind. Soon I had a feast for every man I’d ever fallen for!
Cooking wasn’t the only task I tackled in the kitchen. My relationship with food mirrored the relationships with men. Each culinary venture revealed hidden wisdom about what went wrong with the affairs. By mastering the recipes, I relearned how to love. As I conquered more and more complex recipes, I reclaimed my self-esteem. As the cookbook came to fruition, so did the healing. Cooking was my cure for heartache.
Along with my oven, my love life heated up. Puck returned and requested a reunion, but both of us had undergone seismic personality shifts. I no longer needed a man to be well-fed or feel satisfied. The secret ingredient for happiness, I realized, was the ability to nourish myself.
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