“Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.”

— Brené Brown (b. 1965), American research professor, author, and speaker on vulnerability, courage, and self-worth.

Go ahead! Run reference if you must. You’ll probably confirm what you already suspect. More than once, I’ve asked you to lean in real close and listen as I shout out for all the world to hear something that I think no one in the world should hear. Private should stay private, right? Not always. Here I am about to pull you in and do it all over again.

But this time it’s different. It’s one of those insights I’ve had before—the kind that first comes as a shadow of knowledge, and then, with a turn, reveals itself fully, clad in nothing more than the simplicity that truth always wears.

That’s exactly what happened to me. I was all by myself. My partner Gary—Remember? My Tennessee Gary?—had gone off to Minnesota for his 60th high school reunion and for a family reunion to boot. So it came to be that I dined alone.

I plated my entree with all the attention that might bespeak the 5-star restaurant that I know my kitchen will never be. Yet, I keep right on striving.

The golden-crusted whiting stretched across the plate like a painter’s confident stroke, its edges crisp, its center promising tender flake with the first touch of a fork. Beside it, a tangle of violet cabbage shimmered as though the skillet had coaxed from it not just flavor but light itself—earthy, sweet, and just slightly wild. A sprig of thyme leaned in, whispering green against the purple, while a single blossom, fuchsia and unapologetic, dared to remind me that even supper alone can flirt with beauty.

Then, an hour or so later, I was ready for dessert. Don’t you dare tell anyone—especially Gary—but since I was alone, I decided that a store-bought dessert would do.

It was tiramisu with all the makings of a showstopper—moist sponge, creamy layers, a hint of coffee and chocolate—but there it sat, in its plastic box, reminding me that sometimes dessert doesn’t need fanfare to be enjoyed.

“Fine. I’ll enjoy it straight from the plastic box.”

Just when I was about to grab a fork (but not a plastic one, mind you), I decided that it needed proper plating, too.

It only took a second for me to turn store-bought into five-star. The tiramisu rose in creamy, coffee-kissed layers, draped with curls of chocolate that caught the light just so. Against the deep black plate, a scarlet bloom blazed like a velvet exclamation point, transforming a humble slice into a scene-stealer. Every bite promised richness, every glance was pure seduction on porcelain.

In no time at all, I had done for myself what I do for us all the time. In no time at all, I had done for myself what I would have done for me and Gary if we had been sharing the table that night. I had lifted something ordinary into something memorable. I had taken the plastic box off the table and replaced it with care, intention, beauty. In that small act—so quick, so simple—I realized that I had given myself the very same attention I so easily give to the life we are building together. And I had done it when it mattered just as much—I was alone.

We forget, don’t we? Especially when we are alone. We fall into the trap of thinking that we have to wait for company, for celebration, for some special someone before we let ourselves live five-star. But that’s not so. We don’t have to wait, nor should we. We should use the special napkins every day, especially when we’re alone. We should have flowers on the table every day, especially when we’re alone. We should bring forth all of life’s little graces, especially when we’re alone.

We should always see ourselves as the guest of honor—especially when we are alone, even when the chair across from us is empty.

We should remind ourselves that this kind of self serve isn’t selfish and it’s not uppity. It’s simply a way that we can say “Yes” to ourselves. It’s pulling the good wine from the rack, even on a Tuesday night. It’s plating coleslaw in a little bowl instead of scooping it from the mixing dish. It’s lighting the fireplace in October simply because the first chill makes you want to. It’s cueing up Black Gospel or Acoustic Chill while kneading bread, letting the room swell with music as much as with sourdough. It’s slipping into my favorite blue linen shirt, even if no one but Ruby will see me in it. These are the gestures that matter most—especially when we are alone.

These “alone” moments count. Every single one of them counts. And if we don’t serve ourselves with dignity, who else will?

So, My Dear Readers, let me raise a glass to the hydrangeas cut and arranged, to the figs sliced and drizzled, to the silver chest opened on an ordinary weeknight. Here’s to the quiet supper for one that still deserves a sprig of thyme, and to the tiramisu that—freed from its plastic coffin—reminds me that even the humblest store-bought sweet can rise to the level of celebration.

Because self serve is never second best.
It is the altar we lay with linen and light.
It is the chalice filled, the bread broken, the sweetness offered.
It is the music of a knife against porcelain,
the fragrance of thyme rising like incense,
the candle flame trembling like a prayer.

Let the plate gleam.
Let the glass catch the last gold of evening.
Let the blossom burn bright against the dark.
Let the feast of one be as radiant as the feast of many.

Be the guest of honor. Your own.
Be the blessing at the table. Your own.
Be the flame, the flower, the feast. Your own trinity.

Even when we are alone.
Especially when we are alone.

Let’s never–for even a moment–forget:
We are enough.