How Quarantine Cooking Became Therapy
Dealing with my lingering eating disorder
During the quarantine I started cooking elaborate meals. And by elaborate, I mean normal recipes that don’t just come from a box. It didn’t start because of the bread-baking-out-of-boredom craze though. Food has always been a complicated subject in my family, and I suspect it is for many others, too.
I used to identify as someone who has or, has had, an eating disorder. Now I recognize that, no matter my size or my age or my extracurricular activities, the issue is with my self-esteem. The eating disorder was just a way to cope. Or manage. Or maybe it was a guilty pleasure to be sad. To be wounded. To have a secret. To check out of my life’s responsibilities.
My senior year of high school, after everyone found out that I was sick, my dietitian came up with an idea. She asked which food gave me the most guilt and shame. I said ‘hamburgers.’ The next week, she had me order two burgers from Islands and drive them to our therapy session, where we would eat them together in her office. I was embarrassed to eat in front of people. If they saw me eating, they’d know that I ate food. That I ingested more than almonds and salad without dressing. It’s not that I actually minded eating a burger, it’s that I didn’t want anyone to hear me chewing or watch me try to fit each bite in my mouth. We ate a few tiny mouthfuls, hovering the juicy burgers over Styrofoam to-go boxes, each one aware of the sound of the other chewing as politely as possible. (Is it even possible to eat a burger politely?)
She checked in on how I was feeling. I lied and said ‘anxious’ or ‘scared’ or whatever answer I thought she was looking for. She knew my mom — patient confidentiality prevented her from telling my parents my progress, but still, I couldn’t trust her. I knew she wouldn’t finish her burger if I didn’t finish mine. I knew she wouldn’t eat less than me. In the end we ate half. She advised me to put the other half in the trunk of my car on my way home so that I wouldn’t eat it and therefore feel tempted to throw it up after. Later, I would consume the rest of the burger with one hand out the window, driving 80 down the freeway, licking ketchup from the fingers that I knew I wouldn’t stick down my throat.
Like I said, my relationship to food was complicated.
My family had a nutritionist among us, but meals were rarely nutrients for the body and soul. They were either light and healthy or saturated with butter and guilt. They were good, or they were very very bad. They were sugar free, or they were a pint of ice cream for breakfast before school when everyone had already left. They were quick meals put together after dance and track practices or they were eat-whatever-you-can-find-out-of-the-pantry-until-you-feel-sick-or-fall-asleep. Attached to each meal was a sugar crusted satisfaction followed by shame and weakness — even after I left most of my bulimic tendencies behind.
It wasn’t until the quarantine forced me inside, at age 29, that I found true joy in cooking and in food. For me, it’s the process of finding a recipe. The operation of travelling across the buzzing city of Madrid to find all the ingredients. (This is often the hardest step, I once cried in a Greek shop because they were out of orzo and it’s the only place in town where you can buy it. The owner still says ‘no cry today?’ when I walk into the store.) It’s the investment of multitasking and making sure not to burn the butter while the rice soaks. The smell of rosemary crisping over a pan of lemon slices and chicken smothered in Dijon mustard.
It’s the oldies blues pouring out of the speakers on the wobbly counter top that I’ve learnt over and over is not to be trusted (I’ve lost a laptop, a lentil soup, and countless glasses of wine to that DIY shelf). The knife slicing through an onion, the tears that form. Telling myself ‘I won’t rub my eyes this time,’ — giving in and cooking the rest of the meal with a raccoon smear of protection. The not-so-elegant flick of my wrist as I sprinkle a pinch of salt over a dish, and then a little bit more… just in case. I’ve just discovered that if you mix cumin with coriander, paprika, and turmeric, you get a rich tangy blend of spices for a curry. I’ve noticed that almost anything can be fixed with garlic or heavy cream.
I’ve found a way to lose myself in the kitchen. To be present. To leave behind my to-do list of worries and focus solely on the recipe’s requirements. Chopping and frying and searing and trying not to open the oven to check if the cake is done yet, but doing it anyway. Over and over again.
Finding a recipe and creating it in the kitchen can be daunting — especially if you’re cooking for other people. Often times I miss an important step or forget to buy rice for a stir-fry, but it’s these mishaps that can end up in delicious improvisations… like rigatoni stir-fry! Michael Pollen, a journalist/author/activist, wrote, “For is there any practice less selfish, any labor less alienated, any time less wasted, than preparing something delicious and nourishing for people you love?” (Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation). You needn’t feel bad about eating a rich meal you’ve prepared yourself.
If you take the time to go and pick out ingredients, blend them together. Chop, stir, saute, whisk, blend. If you go through all that work, then you deserve to savor every bite and not feel a damn bit of shame. You’ve earned it. He also said, “Eat food. Not too Much. And Mostly Plants” (In Defense of Food). But I think he’d support me here. And I get it now. There’s something singular about slicing into the lemon glazed cake that I spent three hours creating, and then enjoying it on my balcony with an afternoon coffee — it’s a moment, it’s an experience. It’s not the same as tearing through a plastic bag to get to the sticky, sweet store-bought cupcake that I’ll eat in a hurry with the kitchen door closed so that my boyfriend doesn’t know I’m eating cake at 10:30 in the morning.
I may never completely lose the voices in my head telling me that an empty stomach is a brave stomach. I may never be able to eat a piece of carrot cake without questioning how many calories are buried within its layers. I may always feel inclined to do the math of how many push-ups can cancel out a chocolate chip cookie. But I’ve found a way to quiet them for now. I’ve found a way to cook through my insecurities and my shame. I’ve found a therapy that works, a therapy that reacts and makes me proud of myself. And finally, that’s more than just filling.
