Images: Tookapic (Pexels) & Congerdesign (Pixabay)
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’ve recently realised that my life so far can be mapped through food. When I was younger, we ate plainly, boringly, frugally. Pies were made without onion—though sometimes it was grated so fine we couldn’t see it, unknown to my fussy younger brother. The silver slithers hid amongst the meat, consequently hiding the dissatisfaction my mother held with her married life. She made our lunch boxes with love, placing Christmas tree shaped sandwiches into brightly coloured bags, sometimes with a note reminding us she loved us. We weren’t allowed fish often, my Dad didn’t like it. When we went to Spain—the origins of my exotic sounding name—the fresh strawberries, watermelon and grapes amazed me. We were lumbered home with hunks of chorizo, punnets of strawberries, and even eggs—much to the delight of my mumbling grumbling mother. Everything was better in Spain, we were told, even the eggs. As I got older, and I headed off to university, to meals out with friends and dinners at my boyfriends, my stomach groaned. I was seeing things, tasting things, but they weren’t always better than the plain food I remembered from my childhood. I gave up gluten, but I ate cheese by the block. I read every packet so carefully until I couldn’t be bothered anymore. Maybe it wasn’t gluten causing the discomfort in my body. My parents got divorced and I taught my Dad how to cook. ‘Do you cook the pasta before you put it in the sauce?’ He asked. I laughed. But who had taught me? I couldn’t remember. I heard he lived off ready meals and jars of sauce. I didn’t care, we were no longer talking. My Mum? Despite the post-divorce attitude where she could ‘eat when/ what she wanted’, she’d soon gone back to being someone’s carer. This new one didn’t like mature cheddar. He’d never tasted red pepper. Eating out was my escape, my reminder that I was still a normal person who could do normal things, despite everything. We spent our evening at Italians, Mexicans, and American-style diners. Our student loans took one hell of a beating. Then one day, it stopped. I could no longer eat, not in public anyway. I devoured packets of biscuits alone and could spend an entire afternoon munching on crisps. But the smell of a home-cooked meal repulsed me. I was losing weight, yet I was also on the other side of the world where no one noticed. My Australian counsellor asked ‘What is your goal?’ I said ‘To eat in front of my boyfriend again.’ She said ‘Do you know where you can buy fish?’ I kept going, and it got better. I kept eating, and I got fatter. I still eat cheese yet I also eat gluten. I still prefer eating alone yet I can enjoy a meal out. I add extra onion to my recipes now, just because I can.
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