I made her eat toast

I am eating a sharp green apple with a knife and I’m still a little bit out of breath from steam mopping the floors this morning. My hands smell of the inside of rubber gloves, and my teeth feel like two cups of coffee. I added butter and jam to a croissant like we did in childhood earlier and it didn’t really touch the sides. I managed to add three carrots, a really large piece of ginger and a squash to my basket this morning because I know we need to manage some nutrients later.

What is the peaceful reserve of someone who fed themself well last night? Is there anything more glorious than spaghetti sauce on the far corner of your face? The chocolate from a cappuccino on your face three hours later when you next look in the mirror? Will you help me apologise for the butter stain on the sofa because it landed face down and it was enough butter to drip in the first place?

One day he will feel ok enough to fill up his own cupboards, and it’s ok if yesterday I made her eat toast. It was never about the bigness of my body, it was about how Gemma said that she admired that even in the depths of despair I never lost my appetite. Is it ok that the expense of taking care of myself this winter is a slightly softer line of my belly? Isn’t it true that she looked her most beautiful when her cheeks were full and there was light in her eyes from the olive oil.

Heat magazine used to say that Rachel BIlson was 8 stone. And that’s why we thought there was power to be gained in collarbones. You’re looking in all the wrong places. What about the photography project when I was between 19 and 20 and I took pictures of me in front of a mirror in just my underwear and a grey head band holding up a ponytail. What about how sad those pictures were somewhere in my parents recycling 10 years ago. What about that year of getting closer and closer to eight stone until it didn’t matter anymore - and maybe I got there for half a day, long before lunch and then stopped writing in pencil in my food diary and eventually left the scales in a bathroom I’d never return to. Sometimes I think thank god I got so close to the edge between 19 and 20.

I remember six months in that flat in Bermondsey by myself for the first time. I remember the dinners eaten standing up over the sauce pan and then sometimes something like three peanut butter and jam sandwiches in a row because I’d run 18 miles across the Thames. And something like the wild look in my eye when it was only three glasses of white wine at The Sun and 13 Cantons and a bag of crisps for dinner. The days later in Dalston of £15 for five blue plastic carrier bags of vegetables from Ridley Road market. Never the avocados. The days of making puddings in the microwave and crossing our legs on the sofa.

These trousers are oppressing me, I’ll say to Cindy and tear them off and she will know exactly the feeling because we’d rather sit in pants with a blanket for our knees than live like this any longer. I worry about how thin he got sometimes, and I wonder what she must be feeding him. Probably not the love that folded into a dinner that used all the hobs on a Tuesday night. Probably not. But it was never really my business was it, and maybe she enjoys steamed fish and vegetables in a way I never did. Afterall sushi was always his favourite meal. And sushi was always my worst.

Where is the warmth that another layer of cheese added? Anyway - it was never really my business and much better now making trays of chips sometimes and learning about the true value of mayonnaise. I always used to squirm when they’d make a joke about me filling up my plate a second time. And I’d always wish they could bite their tongue instead of saying something about how much I’m eating. I’d like to say now that anything you think you have to say about my appetite has been unwelcome from the second you thought it. What about the mother in law and how she always gives the men more roast potatoes, and I think how I always give myself more and feel mild anxiety when someone gets to the buffet before me.

Can you be that sad and still fill a pan with water, wait for it to boil, make it as salty as the Mediterranean and then pasta? Can you long for them and make a fish pie anyway? Can you add milk slowly enough to make bechamel sauce the way your mum would make it? Can you put the chocolate back in the cupboard when you know you’ve had enough? Can you put the cork back in the wine? Anyway, don’t worry, it took years to realise that low fat yoghurt and margarine were pointless inventions of the patriarchy. Years. And, anyway, some mums in some kitchens can’t remember what it was like when they let themselves have butter.

Anyway darling, I’m so glad to see you’re hungry before 1pm and making yourself lunch before I remind you. And I was happy to see you sweating again - you look strong like that. And him, I’d love if he could eat the whole brownie to himself and know that would be ok. And I’m waiting for her to one day sleep a bit longer instead of doing that workout on the kitchen floor. Do you know you can buy the oranges that still have their green tassels, and did you know sometimes just two boiled eggs on toast with salt and pepper are perfection? There is a way to make yellow rice perfect in the oven? Did you know there is an art to feeding yourself?