Can I bake my childhood and eat it? Would that finally fix this feeling?

It’s a Thursday and I could try and attempt one of the dumpling recipes I found on the internet and saved for days like these. For days when the silence needs to be forced into busy-ness to stop the ache from getting worse. Maybe I’ll pick a childhood dessert, memories of apple and raspberry crumble that the dinner ladies served onto cracked porcelain in endless scoops. I would always ask for more and they would smile willingly, so grateful that I was eating and that I was warm. But as I’ve grown up I’ve never had seconds or thirds, let alone even the starting dish. This is not the result of never asking but of simply loving wrong. Displaced limbs and organs in all their glory and even now, when I am home I’m not sure all my parts feel attached at the joints. Knees wobbling like the jelly I refused to eat at birthday parties and laughing at the misshapen sandwiches my mother made into sharks and bunnies. Now I think they’re laughing at me…