excerpted from the print magazine…
How often have I sat down to eat a meal, my mind consumed by thousands of thoughts flipping through my brain at lightning speed until I find myself staring at an empty plate having absolutely no memory of what I put into my mouth.
I just ate?
I grew up in a family hyperaware of weight and calorie counting. The thing is we loved to eat and we ate – a lot. So, this whole dieting business was an obvious paradox at work; eat we did, but with so much guilt! Which, over the course of the years, has resulted in a complex cornucopia of food and body image issues.
And it just doesn’t stop being an issue. I can’t ever simply put food into my mouth. For hours before I’m deliberating over what I want to eat. Then I’m acquiring the concocted recipe’s ingredients. Then I’m preparing my dish. When I finally sit down to taste what I’ve been fantasizing about, well, see the opening paragraph above. It’s as if I’ve decided that I don’t deserve this basic pleasure (nay, necessity) and hence I either have to torment myself or obliterate the process.
Taking pleasure in eating has always been a double-edged sword. I’m supposed to love to eat – and I suppose I do, but it seems I can never eat without a whole prolonged and convoluted interior dialogue taking place; an inner watchdog that comments upon and evaluates my every food move. This isn’t love. This is obsession.
