What does a food blogger blog about when she’s lost interest in food?
Oh, I’m still interested in food, theoretically. And I know that I will soon be interested in food again: sensually, viscerally, actively, shoppingly, choppingly, steamingly, slurpingly.
Did I just write that torrid sentence? Damn. I miss those sensations of desire.
See, I’ve been slogging through a funk of depression for the past few weeks. Depression robs you of desire. It robs you of a whole lot more, but I’m a food blogger, so I want to talk about being robbed of my appetite.
If you look back over some of my recent posts, in fact, you’ll see I’ve largely been faking it about food anyway.
The only relationship I have with food these days, other than my habitual lunge for the food section every Wednesday and visiting my delicious blog friends online more often than I should admit, is nourishing myself.
And, to be honest, I’m not nourishing myself; I’m letting Cranky do it. He will do whatever it takes. He’ll spoon a little yogurt into me, warm up a bowl of unthreatening soup, tempt me with buttered rice. He knows me well enough that the other day he brought me some cole slaw, because he thought I might be ready for vegetables… and I managed to eat quite a bit of it. That’s a lot of texture, when just a few days earlier, even cottage cheese was too bumpy to put in my mouth.
Am I allowed to admit this? Have I broken a rule, a wall, a pact? Can we peek out from behind our shiny photos of lustrous roasts and come-hither cheesecake to show our honest shortcomings now and then?
This is me, at the moment. And it’s a torment, because for me, eating and blogging are inextricably entwined. If I’m not eating, what can I write about?
That’s why I decided to write about not eating.
When I say “not eating,” you should know that, of course, I am “eating.” But it’s a dull, reluctant parody of eating. “Receiving sustenance” might be a better term. Forced, dry chewing of balky, bulky mouthfuls; quick “gulp-fast-before-you-notice” swallows. Get the calories in. The fiber. The protein. Dutiful alimentation — it’s about as sexy as a dietician’s checklist.
I thanked Cranky yesterday for his “foie gras ministrations,” and by that, I certainly don’t mean he was plying me with goose liver. Picture me as the goose.
However, I am OK. This is not a cry for sympathy or advice. I have been through this before and I know that therapy/meds really do work.
Already I am improving. I just ate a massive, drippy, oily, salty, juicy plate of sliced tomatoes (bumpy cheese too), and every bite pulled me toward the sensations of desire I’ve been missing.
I am hungry for hunger; that’s a good sign.
Upbeat ending: I wrote the above post quite a few days ago, and I’m pleased to report that now my appetite is back. I thought it was an important topic, though, so I decided to publish it anyway, maybe get some conversation going. I’m still not banging around in the kitchen as much as I’d like, but it's nice to be able to say that I’M HAPPY AND I EAT. Whew. Slurp, smack, snarf.