CORN & FENNEL CHOWDER WITH CHIVE FENNEL OIL (VEGAN).

Technically, I’ve been single for two years, five months, and three days. In that time, I have been on Tinder, OkCupid, Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, Hinge, and JSwipe (exceptionally briefly). I have been rejected by Raya (twice), a deeply shaming feat I didn’t even know was possible. In the case that you are reading this as a happily coupled human with no single friends, or as a human who has never heard of online dating before, let me explain: These are all dating apps, virtual enclaves for the lonely, the sexually frustrated, and all too often, the obscene. As of today, I am officially using none of said apps—dating app fatigue (and general disgust) is real. Do I sound jaded? As the kids say these days, lol.

For two years, five months, and three days, I’ve mostly refrained from writing about dating here on K&C. It felt too risky to write about strangers who might one day find themselves exposed, and be hurt or angry—many of the men I’ve dated were regular visitors to K&C or its associated social media properties. But at the same time, I’m tired of having to keep such a significant part of my life from all of you. I want to tell you all the juicy stories, all the fumbles, all the fails, all the ridiculous first dates and the bizarre first kisses. I want you to know why it’s been two years, five months, and three days.

Though LA’s population runs close to 4 million, I used to (virtually) bump into a lot of the same dudes across these apps, some of whom I’d already dated, some of whom I went to high school or college with, some of whom just kept popping up, over and over and over again. There’s a special kinship shared with the ones I’d already dated; we’d greet each other with an ironic yet well-intentioned lol instead of hello—the jaded, twenty-first century language of doomed romance. Been there, lol’d that.

I still don’t feel at liberty to rehash all the nitty gritty. There are men to protect and egos to shelter—my own included. Instead, I will draw for you a faint outline of my most recent debacle, the odds and ends of seeking partnership. We’ll sit with them over this bowl of heavenly vegan corn and fennel chowder, made ultra creamy with Milkadamia macadamia nut milk.

Milked fresh from raw, sustainably farmed macadamia nuts grown on the rain-forested east coast of Australia, the milk is a lush, mild treat perfect for savory or sweet eats. Milkadamia has quickly become part of my daily routine—I make Green Milk with Milkadamia Original in the morning, and spike savory soups with the Unsweetened version in the evening. The raw mac nuts used in Milkadamia come from trees irrigated with plentiful natural rainfall, rather than harmful irrigation techniques, in the region where these nuts originated. Excellent for the earth, excellent for my belly.

This soup sings a tender summer song of vibrant corn, sweet fennel, and piquant jalapeño. Brought together with the creaminess of macadamia nut milk, coriander, and olive oil sautéed onion, it’s a perfect soup for the season. And completely vegan.

Now that we’ve settled in with our sunny bowls of corn and fennel chowder, let’s get back to the stickier subject of my singledom, and the related problem of writing-while-single (or blogging-while-single, if you will).

The last fellow I dated enthusiastically onboarded himself to the idea of our coupledom with an excitement I both cherished and gave considerable side eye. I cherished it because what girl doesn’t want to be wanted, doesn’t want to bask in that lovely, Austenian state of luxuriating in one’s desirability. The problem was that his near-blind enthusiasm came too soon—he thought he was choosing me in large part because he thought he knew me. And he thought he knew because—bingo!—of this tender and vulnerable online space I call home.

He’d spent a considerable amount of time reading up on me, had sent various K&C posts to his mother, had no doubt constructed a me in his head based on the virtual persona I present here. And though his interest in K&C was welcome, the idea that he knew me because he’d read about my past and my kitchen and my nightly honey face wash held a tragic fixity. I may pour my heart out here, but I am not my blog.

Which, of course, makes me doubly and triply consider the choice to write about this at all here. But I’m tired of holding back this part of my life, tired of looking forward to the day when I’m stably coupled or married just so that I can write about the malaise of my single lady era. That way of thinking began to feel like just one more victory of marital privilege—the freedom to write about loneliness without worrying about my safety. Of course, being coupled doesn’t eliminate loneliness, or make it any easier to write about. In some ways, I know the opposite is true.

I suppose, then, this is the danger of writing about oneself, one’s life—the cost of candidly seeking answers through the messiness of my own story, rather than the perfect fiction of an invented character. I always put myself and the people in my life at risk when I write. But I write to answer the questions that tug at the seams of my mind when I lie down at night. I write so that I can understand who and what and where and how and why. I can’t not write.

So if anyone reading this happens to be a man I once dated, know that I am only writing to make sense of my own heart—to make sense of why I’m sitting here, alone, with this beautiful bowl of corn and fennel chowder.

Ready for a bowl?