Grief, comfort food, and my slow return to joy.
I’ve always believed that food tells our stories—especially the ones we don’t have words for. And for a long time, I couldn’t tell mine…
When my marriage ended unexpectedly, the kitchen—a place that once felt alive and creative—fell silent. Cooking had always been my love language, not just to others but also to myself. But when love itself felt lost, so did my connection to food. There were nights I tried to cook again. I’d plan something, gather the ingredients, and then abandon it halfway through. Other nights, I’d make a full meal… only to let it sit untouched on the counter until morning.
I wanted to want food again, but I just couldn’t.
I lost a lot of weight on this journey—not because I wanted to, but because food just made me sad. Every meal reminded me of a memory– then just as quickly, I’d be reminded that no new memories were being made around my dining room table that was once filled with feast and merriment. It was all too much.
Grief robs you of your appetite.
It robs you of energy, taste, curiosity—sometimes even the will to nurture yourself.
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When you go from being in a couple to being single, something really hard happens. You stop getting invited to dinners and events and social occasions that you once were an integral part of. You get treated as if there is something wrong with you. And people treat you like you have something contagious that they don’t want to catch. I’m come to call it divorce disease. Then, there are the times you do get an invitation and you can’t tell if it’s pity, or if people still genuinely want you there. Your new single nature makes everyone uncomfortable– but no one more than the person who has show up newly alone and go home feeling embarrassed, uncomfortable and unsteady about it all. It’s one of the hardest things to overcome when you have to go through this. It’s all a mind game. And it all happens around a table.
So for a long time, I avoided those gatherings. The thought of clinking glasses and small talk around shared plates made me ache with discomfort. I would stress over the check coming and how to pay for my single, uneaten portion, when surrounded by couples—things I hadn’t had to consider in more than twenty years.
Then, slowly, small threads began to pull me back toward connection. A check-in from an old friend. A dinner invitation from a new one. A place saved for me at a holiday table. Each small kindness reminded me that I was still part of the world—and that I mattered.
It was during this time that one person—someone patient and kind —began to remind me what nourishment could feel like again. A dinner invitation that would, in time, change everything. But in that moment, the bravery came simply from me saying yes to sitting down and sharing a meal, and keeping it down. The courage to let someone in who cared enough to feed not just my body, but also my spirit.
Beginning to recognize and accept those quiet acts of care were the signs of the healing—proof that comfort isn’t just something we eat. It’s something we offer each other as humans.
Back to roots with comfort food.
When I was a kid, chicken pot pie was my favorite dinner. Not the homemade kind—the ones that came frozen from the grocery store in a little foil tin. I didn’t wait by the oven or watch it brown; I just looked forward to it being ready to eat. I didn’t know it then, but chicken pot pie was my childhood comfort food.
Years later, when I started Feast & Merriment, one of the first recipes I shared was a homemade version of that childhood favorite. It even ended up published in Greenwich Lifestyle Magazine as a feature recipe. Back then, when it was published, food was my greatest joy—a way to show love, inspire connection, and make people feel cared for.
It’s funny how food can carry us home, even when “home” no longer looks the same. Maybe that’s why comfort food is called comfort food. It doesn’t just taste good—it reminds us that even after loss, there’s still warmth to be found.
So, as I relaunch Feast & Merriment 2.0, it only feels right to start where it all began—with the dish that started it all back in 2010.
So here’s to nourishment in all its forms—the meals we share, the ones we abandon, and the ones that remind us, slowly and tenderly, that we’re still alive.
With love and gratitude,
Chrissy 💛
What’s your ultimate comfort food?
I’d like to know.
Is it something your mom made? Something you discovered later in life?
Share your story in the comments below.
