I wrote this essay several years ago, and just ran across it again...
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| S'mores Cake |
I remember as a
kid, standing in front of the refrigerator, scanning for something I wanted to
eat and not finding it amidst the low-fat cottage cheese in the pink container,
the non-fat milk in the blue container, and the steamed, skinless chicken
breast wrapped in plastic. My mother would yell at me to shut the door and stop
wasting energy. She meant the energy the fridge used. Looking back I realize I
was wasting my energy trying to find something I actually wanted to eat.
Outside in the garage we had an extra freezer that housed Sara Lee cheese cakes
and pound cakes - for my mother's dinner parties. I liked to open that freezer
door and stand there too, wasting energy.
My mother hid
"goodies" for herself. On top of the fridge in a big wooden bowl,
under a towel lay a bag of malted milk balls. Her stash. My two older sisters
taught me to climb onto the counter and find the bag. We would each have a
couple. Not too many or Mother would notice.
When my mother
threw those elaborate dinner parties, she created dishes out of Gourmet
magazine. Gourmet magazines filled the rack in the bathroom. I could read about
buttery sauces and cheese filled pasta while sitting on the toilet. But in the
kitchen, there was nothing good to eat.
At my mother's
parties, I learned to sit at the table and pretend to be satisfied with a smidge
of this and a sliver of that. I ate the salad with the real dressing, full of
fat, and pretended I didn't want more. I ate the pasta filled with ricotta and
spinach and parmesan and pretended I didn't want more. I ate the dessert - one
of those frozen cheesecakes, now defrosted and decorated with cherry pie
filling. I pretended I didn't want to eat the whole thing.
When the parties
were over, and it was my turn to help clear the table and clean the kitchen, I
would sneak more food. I carried the warm brie and crackers from the living
room back to the kitchen, sneaking a bite as I set it on the counter. I ate the
remnants of pasta off the serving plate before washing and drying it. And when
there was cake left over, I sliced off a tiny wedge, so no one would notice.
My sisters would
do the same. We were in cahoots, conspiring with each other as we ate forbidden
food, literally behind my mother's back. Sometimes my mother would even be
"in" on the process. If my mother turned around at just the right
moment, she might catch one of us enjoying a transparently thin slice of cake.
My sister Sue, in training to become a master manipulator, would say innocently,
"I'm just straightening it out. It was crooked."
We would all
laugh, nervous laughter, the laughter of recognition. We ALL wanted more cake,
even mom. Sometimes, we would put the cake in the middle of the kitchen table.
Mom and her three daughters would sit around the table talking, making each
other laugh, and straightening the cake.
Though my mother
restricted our food (or tried) and dragged us to Weight Watchers, and
complained bitterly when we got fat, and despaired over her own (usually minimal)
arm flab, I can't blame her for the shame I felt about my body. It was her
shame too. In the process of trying to protect us and ensure our happiness, living
in a culture that hates fat, she did her best to keep us thin. She fed us her anxiety
on a bed of undressed lettuce, topped with a weighed and measured portion of
very dry chicken.
