HelloFresh, GrubHub Or Whole Foods: Tips On Cooking With An Eating Disorder

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I’ve written quite a bit about cooking over the years.

From the days of meal planning post-rehab (that lasted all of a month) to New York small apartment cooking (that also lasted approximately 22 days) to Grub Hub’ing  (more often than not) to cooking meat for the first time (disaster) to present day Hello Fresh meal plan subscriptions, I’ve phased through it all – which led me to this post, and a comforting realization.

Saturday morning, I woke up in one of those frenzied moods, shoving the comforter back so forcibly that my dog jumped up in fright.

I HAVE X, X, AND X TO DO, I announced aloud, leaping up to brush my teeth – as though I was about to set out to save the world from the Bubonic Plague (or Trump.)

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Add A Pinch of Salt: Must We? Cooking With An Eating Disorder

Happy 2017 y’all! My fingers have finally found their way to the keyboard again and I couldn’t be more relieved. (Always have this mass blind anxiety that after each blog post I’ll suddenly run out of subjects and dive into a deep writers block and lose my voice and never write again and and… well, you get the picture.)

Anyway, I’d say my resolution is to write more consistently – but hey, I think resolutions are bullshit – and I don’t like writing unless I have a subject to delve into.

SO, with that being said, lez’ talk about cooking and eating disorders ’cause LORD – I gots some venting to do.

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Pancakes from my roomie

Picture this:

The other night my roommate walks into our apartment right? And there I am leaned over on the kitchen counter – squinting at a laptop screen.

She halts in the doorway. “Are you cooking?”

I look up from said laptop, brow furrowed –  a dripping colander of black beans, a pan full of burnt rice, and reading some eye-rollingly beautiful blonde bloggers “easy, earth shattering sweet potato and grains bowl” recipe.

“I dunno what the hell I’m doing,” I say – turning back to the sink and pushing sweaty hair off my forehead.

SUCK IT BLOG LADY, I think. I hope all your cabbage rots and fumigates your 10,000$ oven.

“Well, this is interesting,” my roommate grins.

I make a face. “I’m on a budget.”

“Lemme know if you need anything,” she says – walking back towards her room (likely with deliberate stride).

“IS A CLOVE THE WHOLE GARLIC?” I yell.

“Jesus, NO. That’s the bulb.”

I sigh. Look over at my dog.

“Wanna give me your gruel?”

He did not.

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Hello, Juno – you greedy bastard

The truth about cooking with an ED?

It’s a minefield.

Continue reading “Add A Pinch of Salt: Must We? Cooking With An Eating Disorder”

Rehab Truth: See Ya Orthorexia

Remembering tonight that 2 years ago pineapples had “too much sugar,” strawberries had “too many pesticides.” iceberg lettuce held “not enough nutrients,” soy sauce had “too much sodium,” cashews had “too much fat,” and quinoa salmon patties held “too much olive oil and breadcrumbs.”

2 years ago I ate like a rabbit- I picked and sorted and moved and analyzed. I could binge eat a box of cereal yet not eat a sweet potato because “carbs.” I wouldn’t eat a bowl of fruit because “natural sugar” but would binge drink a bottle of wine at happy hour. My orthorexia was a mad woman in my brain- and I was miserable.

2 years later, I’m sober; I’m cooking every meal- and I’m realizing that I enjoy it (something I never thought possible). I’m googling what sounds interesting and coming up with Asian lettuce chicken wraps and quinoa patties and homemade yogurt parfaits.

Im feeling useful to myself and I’m taking care of my body. I’m eating foods that I once deemed inedible and finding myself full and content on a level that doesn’t give me massive anxiety (I.e. My mind screaming: run it off you lazy bitch)

In short, I’m waving goodbye to the pieces of orthorexia that still remain as I enter this sober side of my life. I didn’t comprehend how much of me was still skewed by this ridiculous logic of my eating disorder brain.

Orthorexia is a real deal. People discredit it because our culture is unhealthy in nature, but taking clean eating too far is real. It’s obsessiveness and habit-forming in the same way bulimia and anorexia are. It carries the same warped values and illogical patterns.

As I continue down my sober epitome, I find myself waving goodbye to a part of my existence that just didn’t make sense, and thankful to be cooking- even if it means I’m not necessarily the girl with the most “fun” stories from the weekend anymore.

I’m content living this way lately. I’m content cooking- sometimes successfully, other times not so much (my potatoes are always undercooked-ugh) but hey- I’m learning. And I’m sober. And I’m finding a happiness that’s consistent- and that’s all I could ask for tonight.

Cheers-

The Truth About Being A Millennial Drunkorexic

This is Rehab Day 15:

And you’re sitting on the Renfrew community couch writing your best friend a letter when Lilly comes in and lays down beside you.

I’m bored, she mumbles- her limp hair falling in her face.

Got a book? You ask, barely looking over.

Read them all.

Wanna play a game?

God no. She makes a face. But I do wanna get drunk.

You grin. Me too.

Like stupid drunk, she says. Like blow some shit up drunk.

You put down your letter. Okay, well that escalated, you pause. But yes, I’d love a Pinot Noir.

She scoffs. You and your rich girl sorority shit. She sticks out her pinky and pretends to hold a champagne flute. Oh yes sir, she mimics. I’ll have a touch of the Rosé if you could ever be so kind.

You can’t help but smile. It’s not really like that, you know. I drink the same way you do, Lil.

Out of a bag?

You snort. Okay well no, not usually. But it’s happened.

You think back to college frat parties. Slapping the Franzia bags.

It’s all the same, you say. Everyone just trying to reach some place they can forget.

She waves her hand at this. I just mean you don’t really strike me as the type to get all that drunk.

You’d be surprised, you admit. Got myself a DWI a few years ago. Bet ya didn’t know that?

Her eyebrows raise. That’s actually pretty shocking- yeah.

Was for my parents too.

So you’re a drunk then?

No, you say. Not conventionally anyway.

Ah- more like a desperate housewife?

Something like that.

One too many glasses of wine a night?

A medicinal drunk, I’d call it. I don’t really need it; just prefer it.

A medicinal drunk. Nice, she grins lazily. I’ll use that in our next AA.

Go for it, you say. I’m taking a break from it once I’m out anyway.

From AA, she asks. Or alcohol?

Both, you say- scratching your head.

God, you think to yourself. You’re almost positive this couch has lice. You just know it.

I need to anyway, you say- trying to forget about the lice.  I drink to not eat so it’s not really something I should keep doing.

She rolls her eyes. Yeah- alright then, she says- plopping her hairy legs in your lap.

You look down. Have they literally not let you shave since you got here?

3 months, she says. But yeah, we’ll see about that no alcohol thing.

What do you mean?

I’m just saying it’s hard, she pauses. I’ve been in and out of treatment more times than I can count and it’s hard to give up all your vices. You’re already dealing with your eating shit, she says. And you’re doing a good job with that- so just go with it.

And I’m not smoking, you add in smugly.

Yeah well, she pauses. Don’t get all holier than thou. She lays her head back on a pillow- her tangled headphones on her chest. I just think it’s harder than you know, to be back in the world and sober. She nestles one of the earbuds in her ear. Even if you are some yuppy bitch from Dallas, you’ll want to go out with your friends.

You smile. Thanks for the advice.

But she’s already lost in her world of Wu Tang Clan.

Leaning your head against the wall that day, you wonder if she’s right.

You wonder if you even mean it:

It takes you 2 years to realize, you didn’t.

Continue reading “The Truth About Being A Millennial Drunkorexic”

Rehab Reminder: Food Is Meant To Be Enjoyed

Coworker cookin

ED recovery pushes you to re-learn foods that you like; it requires that you try and explore and cook and prepare what makes your body feel full- mentally and physically.

2 years ago I would never eat Chicken Parmesan for lunch. I had a stringent, unyielding routine of minimal tuna, 6 raspberries, 3 strawberries, a handful of blueberries, 6 almonds, spinach, and half a banana. I didn’t budge. I ate alone. I avoided office lunches. I barely focused at my desk- scowering the internet for “acceptable” vegan, raw, obsolete recipes. I counted down every day to 4pm when I “allowed” myself an Apple to soothe hunger pains.

I’m writing this post on a whim today- because 2 years into recovery, I stood in my office kitchen this afternoon- eagerly unloading Tupperware to prepare lunch for my coworker and myself, and I finally felt that sense of community that food is meant to represent in our culture. The love that food can symbolize between people.

“Now I’m not a big fan of the sauce,” I said to her, a bit insecure (and always a perfectionist). “I’ve done better but it’s fine. Do you like fruity salads?” I asked, jumping around the kitchen. “This is a bit fruitier- maybe too much dressing- but the croutons even it out.”

“Linds,” she said finally- touching my shoulder. “Chill- It’s wonderful. Look at you,” she smiled. “Who knew you could cook?”

I smiled then, I calmed. It’s true. And it was nice to take a moment to realize that I’m at a point where I can prepare foods and judge them based on taste and not calorie count.

I will always be a bit of a perfectionist, tis true, but I win ED today, you sour lil’ bastard.

💛🍴