When Food is Love
Food is both my currency and my
confessor. I feed people, occasionally
for a living. And, like other women
before me, I use food to show love.
Bad boyfriend problems? Come over and I’ll make you a lusty
mixed-seafood pasta with red pepper and tomatoes, white wine, garlic and fresh
parsley, served with an equally brazen Zinfandel and lots of crusty bread
melting with don’t-tell-your-cardiologist slabs of sweet cream butter.
Karen's Basque Beef Stew over Creamy Polenta |
Depressed by the relentless cold of
winter? Then it’s a saucy beef and
mushroom stew made with a robust red wine and served over creamy polenta in
pasta bowls decorated with colorful pictures of circus horses and hedgehogs.
Indulgence is my thing. And food is love.
Cupcakes for Ava |
Of course I reach for it for solace, for
comfort, too. A midnight call from my
mother with a giant, uncooperative brain aneurysm that turns into an early
morning then all day trip to three different ERs sends me right to the grocery
store in search of a four-pack of white cupcakes made from sugar and shortening
and little else. Even now, as I write
this, I can feel the soothing purr of my brain, an always “on” creature that
pops and sizzles like bacon, as I swallow by the mouthful the spongy cake and
thick, fake buttercream. An upsurge of what can only be described as euphoria
rises first in my forehead and then rolls pleasingly back across the top of my
head like a giant, glassy wave. I swear
this sensation is exactly what heroin must feel like. I imagine the pleasure-gone face of a junkie
and I know there are certain foods that can do that to me, too: Mashed potatoes, rolled tortillas with
butter, ice cream. Foods I avoid.
Usually.
Mom |
This weekend, though, life delivered a trifecta
of anxiety and grief: On top of filing
my taxes and grading midterms and answer a thousand emails and just plain
exhaustion, a well-into her 40s girlfriend is going on 48 hours at the hospital
trying to deliver her first child and my mother who has been dying for over a year, turned agonizingly worse. With
the city-dwelling boyfriend stuck some 55 miles away, I was left unexpectedly to
navigate these choppy seas by myself.
First thing?
I quit my diet. I’m always
watching what I eat and working, working, working out. Yet I am a size 16. I eat less than my friends, but who
cares? I’m not thin so whatever I put
into my mouth is viewed as an indictment.
In a fit of “Fuck you, world” brio, I roasted a skin-on turkey breast,
made mashed potatoes with butter and sour cream served with pan drippings,
cranberry sauce, green beans, and a white cake with chocolate icing. Then I drank almost a whole bottle of
wine. It felt great going down, but by
2am, I was awake, my heart thud-thud-thudding.
Today, after meeting with hospice about my
mom, I thought I would try yoga instead.
For 90 minutes all was good with the world. Then I went home and ate a veggie burger with
avocado and grilled sweet potato fries with loads of mayonnaise, plus the left
over mashed potatoes. I threw out the
cake. Still, I spent the rest of the day
in bed.
I am still looking for the food that will
give me solace after such a weekend, but I’m too full from the last two days to
eat dinner tonight.
I think I'll pop in a video instead.
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