Tonight’s dinner was a good one. Steak, garlic and herb butter, fried haloumi, a fried egg, and a generous helping of coleslaw. A solid meal, cooked just for me, because it’s Saturday night—and weekends deserve to feel a little different.
That’s something I’ve come to appreciate more since living alone: the ritual of eating well, even when there’s no one around to see it.
You Don’t Need Company to Eat Like You Matter
There’s a weird cultural idea that solo meals are supposed to be throwaway affairs. A can of something over the sink. Dry toast at the bench. Maybe takeaway, if you’re “treating yourself.”
But a real meal? A plated one? With sides and intention and seasoning? Surely that’s too much for one person.
Except it isn’t. Not at all.
Dinner for one is still dinner. You still get hungry. You still have taste buds. You still deserve to enjoy what you eat.
Not Every Night Needs to Be Fancy
Most weeknights, I keep it simple. Quick protein, something green, maybe an egg on top. Honestly, most of the time I eat in front of the TV with the plate on my lap. No shame in that. It’s comfortable, and I like it.
But a few times a week, I make a point of sitting at the table. I plate the food nicely—not fancily, but nicely. Sometime’s I’ll even light a candle, or just take a moment to breathe and appreciate how the meal looks before I take the first bite. It’s a small ritual, but it changes the tone of the meal. It turns dinner from a fuel stop into something more intentional.
It reminds me that I’m worth a bit of effort—even if no one else is watching.
Solo Doesn’t Mean Second-Rate
When you live alone, no one’s there to nag you into eating your greens. No one is there to ask if you’ve had dinner yet. It’s all on you. That freedom is a gift, but it comes with a quiet responsibility: to still take care of yourself like you matter.
That includes food.
That includes presentation.
That includes eating at the table when you feel like it.
Not because anyone expects it of you. Just because it feels good.
Final Thoughts
There’s something satisfying about cooking for yourself and making it count. Not every meal needs to be a production. Not every evening needs to be candlelit. But when you live alone, those small acts of care—of choosing the steak, of frying the haloumi, of using the nice plate—send a message to yourself:
This matters. I matter.
Dinner for one is still dinner.
And it’s worth doing well.