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healthy eating

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by Alex J. Tunney

Past the microwave, past the stove, past the window, past the tall thin bookcase where my mother had her recipe books, and underneath the sky blue countertop were the cabinets where my family kept all the snacks. It was a small collection of chocolate chip cookies, potato chips and crackers. My mother had no problem with me enjoying these snacks; she had bought them for my brother and I, after all. It was me sneaking back for seconds and spoiling my dinner that she was concerned about.

Slowly and stealthily, I would stalk across the tile floor in my socks. Approaching the cabinet on a clear day, the afternoon sunlight beaming through the window would bathe the faux-wood doors as if to bless my consumption. Opening them would cause them to creak slightly, but it was attempting to unwrap the packaging that ended up making the most sound. I hated the tinselly crinkling sound that came with unsealing the bags— or sliding a tray of cookies out of them—both for its unpleasantness and that it might alert my mother to what I was doing.

I remember the red, blue and green bags of potato chips, each color-coded to match up with their flavor, and how these bags boasted such bursts of flavor in each bite. I remember the different types of cookies: some chewy, some crunchy, some lasting longer in milk than others. Each bag of potato chips would disappear in a week. So would the box of crackers. I was more methodical with the cookies, but no less indulgent. I would have three, sometimes four, occasionally five or, every once in a while, six cookies at a time.

I’d usually eat my afternoon snacks while I was watching TV. I enjoyed both activities pretty much the same way: listlessly. A mild tide of flavor would hit my tongue and I’d be lulled into a faint sense of pleasure by the blather of the television as it mixed with the sounds of chewing reverberating in my head. When I was eating, even out of routine and eating something I only partially enjoyed, I felt I existed. I felt that I was there.

The only thing I hated about all the snacks were the crumbs and dust that would stick to my fingers after I was done. I could feel each individual speck resting on my fingertips. The little sensations bothered me. I would immediately wash my hands and wonder what was for dinner later. It was like I had never eaten anything at all.

Of course, it wasn’t just snacks that I indulged on. There were the Saturday morning breakfasts with cheddar cheese omelets with a side of ham or sausage and buttered toast.  There were the dinners of various pastas packed full of meat and cheese. There were the huge holiday meals with sides to sample and deserts to devour. My eyes always overestimated the abilities of my stomach. It all tasted too good not to have right there and then.

 

First, I was on a scale. Then I was on the examination table in my doctor’s office listening to him. The wax paper underneath me crinkled when I shifted around.  He was explaining things to my mother and I. I don’t remember exactly what he said but I’m pretty sure the words cholesterol, above-average and diet were definitely used. There were definitely one or two charts.

Soon, the red labels on the milk cartons were replaced with the purple and blue labels of 2% and skim milk. The freezer slowly filled with Lean Cuisine, Healthy Choice and other microwave meals. The chips were baked, the crackers now had vegetables in them and the cookies all but disappeared. The bags and boxes were littered with big starbursts shouting Fat Free! or Zero Cholesterol! The food didn’t taste all that different, but to my prepubescent self, it felt like a punishment.

I realized that food had a weight and it had a price. In the following years, I began to eat less because I saw the hidden numbers in food. These numbers represented the amount of space I took up in the world. They were everywhere: on boxes, on scales, on clothes and on cash registers.

During a summer spent at college, I was determined to spend as little money outside of what the school had given me as I could. Each point a dollar, I limited myself to two small meals a day, mostly sandwiches, salads and yogurts, and I only treated myself to treats like Chinese food, burgers and pizza on weekends when the college was closed. I exercised more times a day than I ate. I began to shed those numbers believing that I was turning myself into who I was underneath those extra pounds. And I was. Yet, when I returned home briefly at the end of that summer, one friend said I looked gaunt.  My mother said I looked like a ghost. Perhaps I had gone just a few numbers too far and had begun to lose myself.

It’s been years since the sneaking, some time since sitting in the doctor’s office and a while since shedding those numbers. I hesitate to say I have it all under control; a better way to describe it is that I have maintained a stasis. Occasionally, I still fall into my old habits.

Sometimes I put too much dressing on my salads. Occasionally, it’s an accident such as when the dressing spills out of the poorly shaped container. Most of the time it’s me trying to mask the taste of all the lettuce. I empty the red or white dressing over the green below like a bizarre downpour over a forest canopy.

Sometimes, I read while eating. It’s hard for me to focus solely on a meal in front of me. My mind will wander and the food alone is not enough to keep my interest. I often find my attention drifting towards a well-crafted piece of writing at the expense of appreciating a well-made meal. If I could chew words, sentences or paragraphs, it would be fine, but I can’t and I miss the diction and the tone of the food itself.

I have continued to develop my relationship with food: how to feel the texture of ingredients against my teeth and resting upon my tongue, to understand the flavors with my taste buds, how to appreciate sweets and how to appreciate spices. I have learned things about my body. I have learned things about other bodies.

I still count calories instead of cookies but now there is no more sneaking— no more shame in appreciating it all, no shame in the occasional indulgence. I am searching, in cabinets, refrigerators, city streets and restaurant menus in pursuit of something new or at least something slightly different from yesterday. When I find it, I savor what is there.

I have also learned to lick my fingers more often.

Alex J. Tunney recently received his M.F.A. in Creative Writing (Non-Fiction) from The New School. He lives and writes on Long Island.