Picking at Scabs

Is this healing or hurting? Or both.

December 2022

I made fresh pasta again for the first time since the loss. It’s been a long time coming. I got into it, along with the foraging, fermenting, etc, during the pandemic. I quite enjoyed it - and much to my pleasure so did Kara. It took me almost a year to do it again though because that stuff tends to sting. Just like going on a hike that we would regularly take, watching one of “our shows” on Netflix, or making any dish that we frequently enjoyed together. More often than not, it all still renders me lugubrious as hell.

But it happened. I purchased the same hand-crank pasta-making machine as before. The same drying rack and the same pasta flour too. Which I did because they are all products I found with much favor when I owned them previously. I recognize that’s kind of weird, the whole replacing formerly coveted items with exact replicas. I’ve been trying not to do that in most cases, but some things fit the bill perfectly.

Anyway, I cranked out some pasta, made some meatballs, simmered a sauce, and topped it all off with the good stuff - Parmigiano Reggiano. Then, had dinner in my new and finally furnished apartment and of course, proceeded to get all wet-faced about it. It wasn’t day-endingly sad, thankfully. But still, it caused me to think again if it might not be easier to just acquire a whole bunch of new shit to be into.

While I understand that re-engaging in hobbies, pastimes, or other aspects of life that I previously enjoyed is probably a good thing. It also feels like some of them might be better off left as wistful remembrances and notions of the used-to-be. I wonder, is this behavior healing or hurting? Or both? In doing these things am I graduating through grief in a healthy way, or am I just picking at scabs?