I concentrate on the force of the meat mallet as I pound the chicken breasts to half-inch thickness. My hands are gluey from dredging flour. The counter is a battlefield of eggshell shards and globs of trimmed fat. This preparation busies my hands and helps me focus my viciously cycling thoughts on a single achievable task. I wasn’t always like this, so obsessive about something as mundane as the daily meal. For years, dinner was sustenance and respite, a time to be with my son and watch cartoons together and forget about the troubles of the day. . .