He must have known he would cook for me no more.
His days of concocting meals, scouting grocery aisles, rolling out dough, perfecting his chili, flipping pancakes, sharpening knives, dirtying every pan in the kitchen were over.
He closed his eyes for the last time whispering, “How will you eat?”
I laughed and cried.
that little voice 
How perfectly beautiful Margo!
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Thank you Peter.
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Moved me to tears Margo. Beautiful post. Love, Joan
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thanks Joan.
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So poignant and heartfelt. I can feel your words.
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Thanks, he really was the cook the 20 years we were married. After a marriage where I cooked for 4 teenagers I vowed not to cook again, and didn’t for the next 20 years. I can scramble an egg and cut up a banana for my bowl of cereal, does that count for cooking?
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It counts if you want it to. You da boss in your casita.
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