Two out of three meals that I have eaten today were take-out/delivery. The first one – which came from my personal-zip-lock-bag-full-of oatmeal. The second was soup and salad from a favorite deli. The third, chicken parm and spinach from Mangia.

In recent months I have acquired the affinity for cooking my own dinners, packing my lunches (whether they be leftovers, deli-sandwiches and fruit and vegetables). Instead of attending a party or joining the bar crowd on New Year’s eve, I stayed in. To make butternut squash soup, fresh pasta and baked chicken. After sampling my own cooking, I am satisfied. Never too full.

Two out of three meals that I have eaten today have made my stomach hurt. My stomach has hurt for years. The hollow leg my Granddad used to tease me about has long since been filled, replaced with angry acids and gurgles that leave me often sleepless and cranky. Doctors, ultra-sounds, friends, family and x-rays can’t decide what it is that irks me.

Tonight is shaping up to be one of those restless nights – when the osmosis of the bitter cold through glass windows urges me bundle up in covers and quiet the mind.