We had a variety of lovely guests on a Shabbos afternoon, and as I was preparing the next course, the ladies congregated in the kitchen, and we started talking about cooking. We reminisced about feeding our families “once upon a time.” One of the women admitted that she no longer enjoys cooking. My eyes grew wide as she went on to confide that she felt downright fear. I couldn’t believe my ears because all along I thought I was the only one.

My memory of those bygone days is rather sketchy, but I know for a fact that I kept my family well-fed. Like my contemporaries of that time, we cooked and cooked and cooked some more. In those out-of-town years, our friends were our family, and so we had guests aplenty to cook for, along with the home crew. I can’t say I was ever a chef; cooking was something I just did. And as my grandmother, a”h, used to say, “And how!”

It’s that time of the year again when donuts will soon be everywhere. Those luscious and creamy confections will be in abundance as far as the eye can see. Large boxes, whose mysterious contents are hidden from view, will appear in the schools where I work. Grocery stores will display them with tongs at the ready to plunk into waiting boxes. My mouth waters just thinking about biting into a soft, fresh donut – something that is forbidden to me.

I haven’t had a donut since last Chanukah, and I’m proud of my year-long hiatus. Intellectually, I know that eating a donut can make me sick. Psychologically, I know that eating one donut is like eating one potato chip, and I’ve only met one person in my entire life who can pull off such a feat. I’m better off not indulging in any soft and creamy cravings, but it will be hard when I go grocery shopping and see wall-to-wall donuts. It won’t take much to convince me that eating them would be a festive thing to do.

 My husband and I made plans to visit our family’s kevarim, something we actually look forward to each Elul. Mount Moriah is where my paternal grandparents, great-grandparents, and great aunts and uncles are buried. It’s a beautiful place, as cemeteries go, and since it’s close to Newark Airport, we enjoy watching the planes take off and land alongside the freeway where we drive.

The best part is that the cemetery is located an hour or so from Lakewood, which means that we get to spend Shabbos with our precious children and grandchildren. Some of my granddaughters and I have a wonderful tradition which started back when I was a child. In those early childhood years, my father worked long hours and was hardly ever home during the week. In fact, family legend has it that when I was three years old, I didn’t even know who my father was. As the story goes, one day, while my mother was giving me a bath, she named all the people in our family who loved me. When she was up to the second cousins, I stopped and asked her about “that man.” My mother looked at me and said, “What man?” to which I answered innocently, “You know, the man with the glasses who lives here?” My mother incredulously sputtered, “You mean Daddy?”

Shabbos was over, and I went around the house putting everything away. I folded the tablecloth, put the dining room table pads away, cleaned the Shabbos leichter, and then started the dishwasher. I glanced over at the fridge and couldn’t help but notice the readout lights on the front panel, a glaring reminder that the Shabbos mode was indeed broken. It was fun having a light in my fridge for the short time that the Shabbos mode was working, but what can you do? It was just plain broken. The bells and whistles are officially gone, and it isn’t worth the time or money to bring them back. Broken. Now my fridge will always remain in the dark.  

My thoughts turn to other dark and broken things. Like broken engagements or broken women who would like to remarry. I watch the process of my single women friends who so want to remarry but aren’t finding it to be an easy process. A shadchan calls them with an idea. They go out on a date or talk on Zoom. Oh, how they want it to work out and how they try making different personalities and lifestyles fit together. So often, they are unsuccessful.

A friend called a month or so ago to share an idea with me. I’d like to say she’s a good friend, even though we rarely speak to one another. Our conversations flow naturally and easily as if we’ve known each other for many years when, in fact, it’s been far shorter than that. The topics vary, and who knows what they are about. But one thing I can say for certain is there is a common theme threading through each one of them.

My friend and I are roughly the same age and from the same generation. I can’t speak for her, but like most of my friends, I had a stay-at-home mother and a father who worked hard building a business. We children grew up, got married and raised a family. The women I know worked hard, too. Many of my friends are baalei teshuva, and as we parented our children and worked in our chosen fields, we began a journey the likes we had never traveled before.

Then our children were married off, one by one, and as we faced retirement – or when we suddenly realized the nest was officially empty – we weren’t quite sure where we were going. Still, many of us were fired up and excited, all the while curious as to where we were headed.

It was a Thursday afternoon last fall, and I was sitting at my computer with thoughts of making Shabbos. I had planned to start my preparations ahead of time and made a mental list of what to make Thursday morning. However, as the sun rose higher in the sky, the kitchen remained in the dark while I sat in the den with my fingers tapping the keyboard, happily absorbed in sending emails to contacts near and far. I knew what was waiting for me in the other room but chose to ignore the signals my mind was sending me – the same way our grandson purposefully tunes out the repeated reminders from his parents when they tell him to take a shower.

I guess it’s time to admit that I’m not the biggest fan of cooking. I enjoy making food for my family and other guests, but I like eating out and prefer picking up takeout on the way home. There are some weeks when I’ll cook a different meal every night, and other times when that just doesn’t happen. I do have some guilty feelings about it, but thankfully, my husband doesn’t feel that his wife should spend any more time in the kitchen than she wants to.