Ever since John left I’ve been trying to go green. I’m the person in the grocery store carrying four mismatched reusable tote bags: one for produce; one for frozen food; one for boxed food like cereal and bags of chips; and one extra, just in case. I never need it but I take it anyway. I’ve also been trying to eat healthier foods. I buy soy milk now, organic macaroni and cheese and expensive vegan mayonnaise that takes like nothing. Occasionally I succumb to the end of the aisle specials, even if it’s not something I normally use. I once bought a half gallon jar of saffron spiced basmati rice, but it’s still sitting in my pantry, covered in six months of dust. I think about opening it up sometimes. I know I could be the kind of person who appreciates exotic aromatics and knows what do to with them in the kitchen. Last week I bought a tin of red peppers canned in a basil olive oil imported from Sardinia . I sat it on top of the rice. I also quit buying paper plates and plastic cups; John always said they were a waste, anyway.

          I go to the grocery store once a week; on Thursdays, I like to linger by the wheels of aged parmigiano reggiano and the display cases of plump kalamata olives in the deli before bearing right towards the produce department, where I pick up a head of romaine lettuce each week. I really do love cheese, even though I don’t eat it anymore. Last Thursday there was a huge display set up by the front door for some new kind of boysenberry pancake syrup. A giant cardboard bottle with cartoonish features flashed a thumbs up as I entered, and a loose-skinned older lady, wearing a red gingham apron, smiled sweetly at me and offered me a half-full plastic shot glass of boysenberry syrup. I told her I was off unnatural sugar. She looked confused; the loose skin around her eyes tightened into deep creases as she squinted at me, before her lips settled into a relenting frown. She handed me a coupon. I’ve never been any good at making pancakes anyway, I told her. John was always the one who made them.

I cooked a lot before John moved to Philadelphia , but it’s not the same when you’re cooking for one. I still watch cooking shows on TV and I want to buy the special ingredients that I’ve never heard of before; I imagine myself standing in my kitchen braising a veal shank in red wine like Mario Batali or searing a salmon filet like Eric Ripert, but halving recipes depresses me. And then there are the leftovers, taking up space in my refrigerator for days at a time, decaying slightly with every passing minute, yet all the while, strangely, if not contrarily, intensifying in flavor. John always used to say that my lasagna tasted better on the second day than it did right out of the oven, when the noodles had time to absorb the sweetness of my roma tomato sauce and the savory seasonings from the ground chuck and creamy ricotta. Lately I’ve been having the urge to cook one; my Mom’s lasagna recipe was John’s favorite.

Right now, however, I’m thinking about pancakes. I’ve lingered too long by the Boysenberry syrup display, and the loose-skinned older woman continues to look over at me with an increasingly worried expression. In fact now I realize that she’s trying desperately to make eye contact with the store manager, who’s leaning on the tall customer service desk in front of us, disinterestedly reassuring a middle-aged mother of two that the ears of silver queen corn she is clutching were locally grown, and not, as her 12 year-old son had suspected, imported from Mexico. The older woman beside me continues to hand out syrup samples to customers who enter the store. She never does catch the eye of the manager, but he looks at me directly when he realizes I’ve been staring, and I place my four tote bags in the child seat of my shopping cart, and walk toward the produce section.

I used to watch John in the kitchen when he cooked. I used to watch his hands, lightly freckled, pale Irish skin slick from the heat of the pan. Long fingers gripping a spatula, a pan handle, occasionally a bottle of Yeungling if he cooked in the evening. Always methodical, a symphony of precision when he chopped an onion, a carrot, a celery stalk. Sometimes John would cook blueberry pancakes for me when I got home late from work. On Thursdays we did the grocery shopping together. I’m a list maker; I wrote out everything in the order of the aisles, walking right to left, but John always insisted that we walk down each of them, whether we needed to or not. He’d pick up random jars, tins or boxes, the kinds of foods you wouldn’t think a grocery store would regularly carry. He’d toss in packages of Norwegian smoked salmon, small bottles of black truffle infused olive oil or French aioli sauce into our cart, and we would figure out how to use them later. The black truffle oil, I remember, was particularly good in macaroni and cheese. That was all John’s idea. I used it, sparingly, when I cooked risotto or pasta dishes. All foods that now make me think of John.

I stopped cooking two weeks to the day after he moved out.  I cooked a lot at first: I cooked meatloaves and mashed potatoes, my great-grandmother’s redeye gravy and homemade biscuits. I made chicken and dumplings and Brunswick stew. I even made macaroni and cheese, but the smell of the truffle oil, breathing in notes of that familiar earthiness and crisp melted cheese, made me sick to my stomach. It seemed wrong not to include the truffle oil; the dish was incomplete without it. None of these dishes were satisfying though. I made one last attempt at making blueberry pancakes around that time, and I burned them on one side. After that, I stopped cooking. And I haven’t really cooked, not like we used to, since that day. That was about six months ago.

Today though, I do not linger by expensive Italian cheeses or Swiss Gruyere.  Today I am not tempted by triangular blocks of pecorino romano, tallegio, asiago, fontina, or the tanginess of crumbled gorgonzola. I tuck a head of cellophane-wrapped romaine under my arm, and slowly scan the produce section. I walk down each of the grocery aisles even though I only have two things on my list. It’s a habit; part of a personal ritual I kept up after John moved away. When I reach the cereal aisle, I scan the shelves, floor to ceiling, for my gluten-free organic corn flakes. There are always plenty on the shelf. I’m halfway down the frozen foods aisle when I look up and see John’s mother and little sister passing by. I immediately head the opposite way toward the cash registers. I choose one close to the door, and it’s only as I’m leafing through a trashy tabloid weekly that I realize that Linda and Casey are staring at me nervously, waiting to make eye contact. God, I hate small towns. I can see Linda, a standing cliché of a mother complete with a white pearl necklace, bite her lip nervously. She’s clearly uncomfortable, but being raised in the South has taught her to speak when she sees a familiar face, even if it means that an awkward, seemingly interminable conversation will result. I understand it. Culturally, I’ve been taught the same lesson.

“Hi Linda,” I say, waving with my left hand, the right hand thrusting the tabloid weekly between an abandoned cantaloupe and a jar of Epsom salts that someone left beside the conveyer belt of the checkout line. She’s three lines over, her grocery cart weighed down with sodas and paper towels, an economy size package of toilet paper shoved under the cart’s main basket. A variety of foodstuffs cover up a cheap bottle of Chardonnay, tucked discreetly beneath them. I only notice it because a flash of light hits the gold foil covering the cork, the only bit of bottle not concealed from the casual observer, or the judging eyes of the United Methodist church ladies who also shop there, who would disapprove of Linda’s choice to indulge.

Linda points to the customer service desk beyond the checkout lanes and mouths “I’ll meet you there.” John’s sister Casey still has one white ear bud tucked in, but she smiles bashfully and offers a short wave as she bobs her head slightly from side to side. I wave back, smiling in return, and pay for my romaine and cereal, shoving the empty tote bags beneath them.

When I look back I see Linda, folding up a long receipt, and I stand there, awkwardly, as we make small talk about my parents and Casey’s ballet recital, and I wait for it, I wait for the moment when she says his name, casually asking if we’ve spoken, the moment she tells me that he’s really doing well.

But she doesn’t. Instead she talks about her mother’s new retirement home, the ridiculousness of installing a special waterslide for seniors, and she gasps when she remembers that she’s forgotten to mail her electric bill. I haven’t seen her since last Christmas, when she’d had one glass of Chardonnay too many, but it’s only now, in this uncomfortable conversation that I realize I’ve always liked her. I smile at Casey, who glances up at her mother and rolls her eyes, and we both laugh. Linda pauses, asking me “Have you lost weight?” Before I can respond, Casey pulls out the second ear bud and says “He seems to like it up there. He’s busy all the time, but he seems happy.” I look up at Linda, and I am not surprised to see her biting her lip again.

“Well it was lovely to see you again, dear,” she finally tells me, patting my arm and eyeing the three empty tote bags I wadded up into the fourth one. I say goodbye but I don’t move. She hugs me, tightly, but releases me quickly and reaches out for Casey’s hand, which she refuses to give. I watch Casey and Linda leave, the sliding glass doors anticipating them as they approach, and I clutch my grocery bag as I follow behind them, looking back at the Boysenberry syrup woman, who pretends to inspect a syrup bottle as I pass by.

I’m still thinking about John as I unlock the back door of my apartment. I slide off my patent leather heels and feel the coolness of the kitchen floor as I put my box of cereal into the mostly empty kitchen cabinets. The kitchen is the one part of the apartment that stays clean; everything is in its place, tucked away.

I reach for a bottle of Yeungling from the fridge as I place the bruised romaine inside it. I notice that I left my laptop on, still sitting on the kitchen table and I tap the enter key to refresh the screen. I pop the top of the Yeungling, taking slow sips, and I sit down at the table, pulling my feet up to sit Indian style in the chair.

My Skype account logs on automatically, and I’m not surprised to see that John’s online. He always did stay up late. I lean forward in my chair and sip my beer again, trying to think of what I would say to him if he answered. After 10 minutes, and most of my beer, I still don’t have an answer. I look over at my pantry door, a closet full of the culinary treasures we amassed during our three year relationship, and I know what I want to do.

“Screw it,” I say out loud, double clicking his name. The music that plays is a slightly mechanical ringing, and I feel my chest warm over, an effect of my adrenaline burst of panic. I wonder if John will answer.

The ringing stops. I hear the sounds of a baseball game—the murmur of a crowd, an overconfident announcer making judgments about Derek Jeter’s batting average, and it takes several seconds before I’m cognizant of the fact that John has answered.  About the time I click the “Start Video” tab on the Skype window, the screen flickers and I see John staring back at me. I can see his television in the background, and he turns toward it with the remote control in his left hand, lowering the volume of the game. I see my own image in the bottom corner of the screen and realize that my hair is a mess. I run my fingers through it quickly, trying to smooth it before John turns back around.

“You look good, Anna,” he says, smiling as he sees me, my right index and middle fingers caught in an unyielding knot of hair. “How are you?”

I hate that. I hate that he has to ask. He could always tell by looking at me when we were together.

“Fine, John. You?”

“Good, well, surprised.” He was studying my expression, trying to figure me out.

 “I ran into your Mom today,” I said quickly.

“You saw Mom? Jesus. Did she corner you in a shopping mall and ask you how you were holding up?” I hadn’t expected him to be so candid.

“Grocery store. She cornered me in the grocery store, but she was really nice,” I said.

“She always liked you,” he told me. Now silence, a heavy, empty space between us, and I know that he’s trying to think of something to say.

“She bought a bottle Chardonnay,” I said. He laughed.

“Yeah, I bet she slid it under some TV dinners or something. Mom goes covert when it comes to her wine. What did you have for dinner?” he asked. I scoffed without meaning to. “What?” he asked.

“I haven’t eaten dinner,” I told him.

“No wonder you’re cranky,” he said, smiling wide. I miss that; I miss making him smile.

“I’ll have some cereal or something. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well I’m sure there’s still a ton of food left in the pantry,” he said. “Or have you already gone through most of it?”

“No. It’s still there,” I said.

“I have dreams about that truffle oil.”

“I really don’t cook anymore, not like we did. I’m trying to go healthier now,” I told him.

“Why don’t you cook? We loved doing that,” he said. I didn’t respond. Another silence, until he stood up and said “Hold on.”

He picked up the laptop, and everything was blurry. He sat the laptop down in a dark room, and when he turned on the light, I realized that he sat me down in his kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Well you’re already sitting in your kitchen. You still have the Chagall print up that you bought the first weekend you visited Philadelphia . Now go get two eggs from the fridge. You’re bound to have eggs, Anna.” He listed off a number of ingredients, and I watched him slide a frying pan onto his stove. I didn’t move.

“I’m not making pancakes,” I said.

“You have to eat, Anna,” he told me. I started to protest, and he said, “We’re making pancakes. You always wanted to know how I made them. You can’t abstain from cooking forever.”

“I am not cooking with you,” I said.

“Stop being stubborn. Go get the ingredients. It’s going to take me a minute to round them up myself.”

“John—”

“Anna, just do it. They really aren’t hard to make.”

          John disappeared from the screen, making it abundantly clear that he wasn’t listening to me. I waited a few moments, and when he didn’t return, I started collecting the ingredients.

          I sat everything down on the counter, and reached for a nonstick frying pan and a small bowl for the batter. When I looked up at the computer screen, he was staring back at me, frowning.

          “You need a whisk too,” he said. I had forgotten how demanding he could be. He looked up at me expectantly.

          “Where’s the whisk?”

          “I’m using a spoon.”

          “You really need the whisk,” he said.

          “To hell with your whisk,” I told him. I’m using a spoon.”

          He sighed. “Cup and a half of flour,” he said, pausing, knowing that I hadn’t set out anything to measure with. I reached for a set of white plastic measuring cups and measuring spoons, anticipating him this time. He had already thrown his dry ingredients into a bowl, and was whisking them together. He told me the measurements for the remaining dry ingredients, but I wasn’t listening. I remembered how he made them.

          “Crack two eggs into the bowl,” he said, and I did. “Break up the yolks, and then pour in about a cup and a half of milk,” he said. “Then add in half of a teaspoon of vanilla.”

          I poured in a fourth of a teaspoon instead, and began to combine the mixture.

          “Throw about a tablespoon of butter into the pan and melt it,” he said. “When it’s ready, you need to whisk it into the mixture, don’t just dump it in. Then you can pour it into the bowl with the dry ingredients.”

          “You took the whisk,” I said.

          “Then use your damn spoon!” he told me.

 When I starting pouring the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, he cleared his throat.

          “Don’t over mix it,” he said.

          “What, you think you’re Rachael Ray now?” I ask him.

          “No, definitely not Rachael Ray. I’m more of an Emeril Lagasse or a Mario Batali.” He looked up at me, pointing his whisk in my direction. “And I bet Mario Batali doesn’t overbeat his pancake batter.” I rolled my eyes. “When it’s mixed, go get the big ice cream scoop from the pantry,” John said.

          “Why?” I asked.

          “It’s what I used to drop the batter into the frying pan. It helps to make them more circular. That’s my big secret,” he said. “It makes them the perfect size when they spread out. Make sure the heat is somewhere between low and medium …”

          “John, I’ve got it. I remember what to do.”

          I poured in the batter, watching it become firm, then bubble slightly, and after two minutes I flipped it. The top was golden brown, not a perfect even brown, but it was the best pancake I had ever made. We were quiet as we cooked, intensely focused on the food. After a minute and a half, I reached for a plate from the kitchen cabinet, and I slid the pancake out of the pan. I could smell the nutmeg and the vanilla, and I knew it would be delicious.

          “There’s a bottle of good maple syrup in the pantry,” he said. “The bottle we got when we drove through Vermont that fall to visit my cousin.” I was thinking the same thing. I couldn’t find the syrup at first; I pulled out dozens of bottles, just leaving them on the kitchen floor, all scattered out, some sitting upright, some leaning on one side. I searched through jars of coarse-grained mustard, French hollandaise sauce, green olive tapenade, candied walnuts and whole vanilla beans. We bought a lot of these things at specialty stores when we traveled together. Those were our favorite kinds of souvenirs, and they all brought back memories.

I heard John call out “What in God’s name are you doing? It’s just syrup!” but I kept searching, I kept pulling out ingredients that I had neglected for so long, until finally I found it. It was at the back of the fifth shelf hidden by a bag of multicolored Italian wheat pasta, the name of which translates into English as Mother In Law’s Tongue. I rushed back over to the pancake, cooled but still warmed through, and I tore at the plastic seal around the mouth of the syrup bottle, pulling both off at the same time. I poured the syrup over the pancake and took a bite without cutting it. I had forgotten John was still there. I looked up, fluffy crumbs of pancake still clinging to my lips, and John was cutting up his pancakes with a fork while smirking back at me.

“Good?” he asked.

“So good,” I said. “I’ve always been horrible at making these.”

“Maybe next you should make some of that macaroni and cheese, with the black truffle olive oil … I miss that. I think about the things we used to cook often.”

“I’m kind of surprised that you didn’t want to take more of the food in the pantry with you. You left it all here,” I said.

“No, you’re the better cook. I know what cooking does for you. I think you were always happiest in the kitchen,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t easy for me to leave, Anna, and I know that I became distant once I did,” he said. “I’m sorry for that.”

I hadn’t been prepared for that. John wasn’t good at apologies, and most the time he didn’t bother trying. I could see that he meant it; his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his cheeks flushed, his eyes betraying truth. I turned off the burner on the stove. I looked away from John, staring instead at the pantry shelves, nearly empty, jars and bags of food strewn all over my kitchen. Then suddenly, inexplicably, I felt the urge to really cook again. Not just pancakes—I wanted chicken vesuvio, spice-rubbed pork tenderloin, and freshly baked apple pie. I didn’t need his instructions, his culinary advice. I didn’t wonder if he still had my picture, or if he meant it when he said he missed me.

 “I did try, Anna—” he started.

“At first,” I said. “You tried at first. And then we talked less about me moving to Philadelphia , we talked less about what we ate for dinner, what happened during your classes, or what we bought at the grocery store. We stopped talking to each other, John.” He was staring back at me now; the background blurred slightly but he remained in focus. “I’m the one who tried,” I told him. “And you know it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sternly. He was angry. I didn’t blame him for being angry.

“I appreciate that you said the words,” I told him. “But it doesn’t matter to me anymore if you mean them.” John looked back down at his hands.

“Take care of yourself, John,” I told him.

I ended the call before he could reply. I took a second for the screen to close, and I watched him lower his head and slide his fingers through his hair before he disappeared from the screen. He knew I was right.

I stood there by the stove, taking in the mess I had made, staring at the plastic bags, glass jars, and containers of cooking utensils, a sight which normally I would have felt the need to clean up immediately. I stood up, scanning the labels until I saw it. There, laying on its side between jars of pepper jelly and fra diavalo pasta sauce, was the black truffle olive oil. I picked it up, feeling the grooves of the bottle and the stained label, worn where the olive oil had dripped down the side after use. It was nearly empty, but there was enough to drizzle over one last savory dish. I’ll use it tomorrow, one last time. I put the oil back down onto the counter and walked toward my kitchen cabinets, taking out the neatly stacked cookware inside them. I sat pots and pans on the empty burners of my stove, and left the rest out on the counter. I took a pad of paper and a pencil from the drawer by the phone, and began writing out a grocery list.

Tomorrow, I will carry my four mismatched tote bags down the grocery store aisles I choose to walk down, and I will buy the ingredients that most appeal to me. I will break my Thursday night ritual, and I won’t think of John as I reach for a carton of fresh blueberries, or a bottle of balsamic vinegar. I will linger by the blocks of Swiss gruyere and aged reggiano cheese. I’ll breathe in the saltiness of kalamata olives and I’ll cook with saffron spiced basmati rice. And as I cook, I won’t worry about leftover chicken taking up space in my refrigerator. I won’t worry about the mess I’m making, or the process of cleaning it up. Instead, I’ll sift through my favorite cookbooks, my great-grandmother’s handwritten recipes, and I’ll cook the food that truly nourishes me.