four dishes

I show people love by making them food, even though I only know four dishes. I think it’s because I know what it feels like to find pride in starvation. I also know how two fingers can exhaust the body to the point of collapse and I know what it feels like to cling to porcelain with clammy hands as cold sweat rolls down the side of your face. I know what it’s like to be too exhausted to fuel your body, and I know what it feels like to not care enough to do it. I know how being fed can make it easier even though seeing a smile while being handed a plate sometimes makes things harder.

I have always loved food, but I have not always loved eating it. Interestingly, my love for eating has grown alongside my capacity to receive love from others, and maybe that’s why I return that love through pasta and risotto and tacos. I also keep my cabinets full of the same snacks my mother bought when I was growing up and my refrigerator is usually stocked with sparkling waters I don’t drink because I know that the people I love enjoy them. I show love by giving gifts and there is no greater gift than love itself.

Sometimes I wonder if I love myself. I know I didn’t in the past, when I stayed in relationships that were built through hurt and jealousy, or when I waited until I saw stars in my eyes before letting myself stand in the kitchen, or when I thought my self-worth was tied to productivity and achievements and that joy was an implausible privilege rather than a right. But I think I do now. I think I show myself love every time I preheat the oven or turn on the stove, or I cut up a melon into uneven cubes and save a container for later. I show myself love through every cookie and scoop of ice cream and I feel that love when I fall asleep without pain. 

It’s not a perfect practice. There are still days when I have to avoid mirrors yet punish myself anyway, old habits comforting in their familiarity no matter how shameful they feel in the aftermath. Sometimes I miss calling iced coffee a meal and pretending to be full after eating a container of raspberries for lunch. It’s on these days that I find myself needing a little extra care, a little more self-forgiveness, and in the end I am always grateful that these are days, individual and independent occurrences, rather than the weeks and months and seasons that used to characterize my years. Every sunrise is a fresh start and I am grateful for all of them.