I hate going to the grocery store because parking is crap, and it is always way too crowded. I do not want to feel rushed, in the way, or judged for what is in my cart. When you get overstimulated easily, a simple shopping trip requires hummed tunes and deep breaths just to get through the aisles. I used to listen to music while shopping and now I am not sure why I stopped. I made it through the store, as I do every time I force myself to go.
I finally made it home and went to work, spending two hours meticulously chopping vegetables. I wanted this meal to be perfect, and I know it is time consuming, so I prepared everything I could the night before.
Naturally, I could not sleep soundly. My mind kept racing, playing out the execution of the meal.
Did I get everything I needed? Did I chop up all the vegetables the correct size? How long do I want to cook it? Do I want it to be super spicy or not so much? What noodles would be best to use? Do I have time to get it all done? What if I cannot do it? What if it tastes bad? What if I ruin it completely? Oh, I pray it works out because I put a lot of time and effort into it? How early should I get up? Did I check to make sure I had all the spices I wanted to use? Would regular spaghetti be better? Why am I making such a big meal when I am the only one eating it? Oh yeah, I have to feed myself for the week. Go to bed.
Early the next morning, I dragged myself out of bed and transferred my beautiful prep work into the crockpot. I prefer slow cooking because it feels like it is foolproof. All day, the rich, savory aroma permeated the house, and my hair, making me feel confident in what I was doing. I had a vision for the flavors and seasonings, and honestly, you might find it hard to believe, but I am good at that part. I love food and I enjoy flavor.
After eight slow beautiful hours of cooking, it was time for the carbs. I had chosen linguine.
Here is where everything went south…
Deep down, I knew the right move: boil the pasta separately, then ladle the crockpot goodness over it. That was the plan. But against my own judgment, my overthinking brain took the wheel.
I snapped the dry linguine in half and threw it directly into the slow cooker.
It looked fine and smelled tasty. Can you see where this is going? I had second-guessed my own blueprint. By the time the noodles were fully cooked, they had absorbed all the liquid, turning the entire meal into a solid orange mush.
My heart dropped. I ruined it.
You may see this as not thinking at all, but it is the opposite. I am confident in my decisions, and I know what I am doing. For some odd reason, when it comes time to deliver, I think way too hard about it, and I go to my lowest level of thinking, which is not at all. It is the same reason I can travel to work and know how to get there, but once someone asks me if I am sure, I am no longer sure. It’s baffling.
I spent the rest of the day and evening crying and endlessly replaying that one stupid decision in my head. I had a full emotional meltdown over a meal. Over pasta.
It sounds trivial, but emotions are emotions, no matter what the catalyst. Pain does not differentiate the size of the mistake. When you are hyper-sensitive, a small error triggers a massive avalanche. I was not crying for attention, because most of the time only God sees my tears, or the empty air, depending on what you believe. I could not shake the crushing disappointment in myself. My heart broke in half, the same as I broke the linguine in half, “snap.”
I refuse to waste food, money, or effort, so I forced myself to eat that flavorful mush for four days. There were literal tears mixed into my dinner. Have you ever forced yourself to eat something you did not necessarily like, and by the very last bite, your throat tightens and you gag? The texture was unbearable. I was sitting at the table gagging and sobbing.
Do you have mini meltdowns? Are you so brutally hard on yourself that a ruined dinner breaks your spirit?
It must be deeper rooted than pasta? For now, I just want you to know that if you experience these moments, you are not alone. It happens. Is it “normal”? What is normal?
If you think a pot of ruined pasta is dramatic, imagine what else is running through my absent-minded dumb brain. Stay tuned because these little moments carry a massive weight in my heart and there is much more to come.
If you were able to make it through my crockpot meltdown, you understand, and you are here for a reason.