i’ve been having an affair. i’m an overeater. i love food. i’m skinny fat. greedy. food gives me pleasure. makes me nicer. makes me laugh. makes me kind and gregarious. there’s a huge woman trapped in my body. sometimes i look pregnant. my boyfriend refers to ‘it’ as my euro-belly. i’ve been obsessively and quietly salivating over smitten kitchen. it (she) makes me hungry. it makes me hungry. (did i really write tht twice? whoa. the truth.) it makes me calm. it makes me excited.
i want to eat. i want to cook. i want to live in new york city. i want bodegas and corner markets and multiple (daily) grocery lists. i want daily trips to the grocer, butcher, fish monger, and farmer’s market. i want fresh, homemade snacks all day. i don’t really want to be an overeater as much as i want to taste everything. a tapas kind of life. small portions, big bites, slow chews, lovemaking on the fork. make it pretty, make it plain. ever since my boyfriend (The Cook) moved in, my hunger beast has been aroused.
awakened. unleashed. i daydream about food, my next meal, my last meal, tomorrow’s possibilities, the perfection of a muffin i ate while i was pregnant (10+ years ago). this is my truth: i am an overeater. if i could get my portions under control, i would feel no guilt about the deep, obsessive love i feel for good food. food is love…
damn it. i must stop. i’m at work.
Nonfiction Woman 