There is nothing to eat. Creativity and inspiration have fled, along with alert taste buds. I don’t want to shop for groceries because there is nothing at the market or the health food store that appeals to me. I can’t muster the energy to look at a restaurant menu, too bored to bother. Even provocative desserts have lost their attraction; ice cream, same.
After my morning bowl of granola with banana and yogurt, desire wanes. Lunch is a handful of peanuts and a small glass of OJ. Every morning when my husband asks, “What will we have for dinner?” I try to skirt the query. Last night we had french toast no bacon, the night before a frittata. This can’t go on.
I am not on a diet, there is no eating disorder, my weight hasn’t changed in years, and I’m not sick. To further qualify my malady, my husband suffers the same low grade food depression that I do. We used to cook. Now we just stare in the fridge.