It didn't work
I poured over Bon Appetit every month as I sat on my single father's
rag-tag couch in a too hot living room in an ugly house on a wreck of a
street in an otherwise opulent town. The afternoon light was the worst,
when the dust bunnies rose in the air, filthy reminders of what I didn't
have.
I dreamed, in equal measure, of sinking my feet into lush
wall-to-wall carpet in a home with a foyer and pool, and of eating Boeuf
Wellington, the rich mushroom Duxelle coating my mouth in luxurious
salt and dark, loamy sauce.
While I turned the pages, willing myself into an imagined state of
culinary pleasure, I tried to close the fingers of my right hand around
my left wrist. That has always been my test. Weight gain, can't wrap.
Weight loss, I can touch my finger tips together.
Only 3:30 in the afternoon. Not time for "dinner" and no snacks
except another pack of sugarless gum. I had already exceeded my 5 piece
quotient for the day. I ached for something more. Nourishment. A big
house. Dinner.
I regretted my last meal. I wanted something fancy and memorable, a
memory to sustain me through the months of impending starvation. I
wanted sophistication like the kind I imagined was happening at the
formal dining room tables of all those lucky rich kids. I wanted to make
it myself, to prove just how good I was. Unfortunately, I chose
ostentatious and deeply greasy Chicken Kiev as my pièce de résistance.
No matter how bloated my stomach got from lack of food, no matter how
dry my mouth or scaly my scalp, no matter the fact that the enamel on my
teeth was coming off in future months, the thought of that last meal
always made me queasy. Still does.
Nothing prepares you for starvation. And nothing makes being poor seem palatable when you are hungry for more.
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