An Open Letter

Dear Food:

I don't understand why we have to be like this right now. We've always been on the best of terms! I love you more than I love myself. When someone asks me if I'm hungry, I always reply with a smirk, 'Oh, we must not have met before.' I am always hungry. My husband constantly tells me, 'Baby, you've never met a carb that you didn't like.' And it's true. Except maybe for um well, there's that one thing uh, oh, how about that dish nope, uhh, I love carbs. Oh! Rye bread. Sorry, I don't like rye bread. Whew, glad I got that off my chest. Rye bread, I'm sorry to break it to you like this.

But I digress. Food, we've always had a lovely relationship. I mean, there was that one time in high school, when I flirted with maybe being anorexic or bulimic, because I knew a lot of (in retrospect, really messed up) girls who were doing it. Then I realized that I'd just be hungry, and I was already tiny to begin with, and I didn't want icky teeth and stringy hair, but mostly I didn't want to have to break up with you. Because I love you.

Even my husband has come to terms with the other love in my life. (Sometimes, I tell him that he's my other love, but he knows that I'm probably kidding, unless I'm making coffee cake or pancakes or homemade bread, in which case, like I said, he's come to terms with that.) And don't get me started on butter. The three secrets to French cooking? Butter, butter, and a little more butter. And I don't even eat French food, although I can make a mean crepe.

I have a love affair with fresh vegetables, as you can see evidence of in this recipe. And this one. Don't even get me started on bell peppers, or we'll be here all day. I have gardens that I sometimes view as shrines to you, food. Herbs. Tomatoes. Pumpkins. Oh, pumpkins. This recipe changed my life for the better, and I've never looked back, even though you actually have to peel and grate a pumpkin.

I have a thing for peaches. Especially fresh ones from Fredericksburg. I love books about food. I sit down and read The Joy of Cooking, even though a bunch of the recipes are crap, like it's a novel. Last week, I made 12 coffee cakes. I'm not kidding. I mean, I gave several of them away (just ask Sarah), and some are in my freezer, but did I mention that I made 12 coffee cakes???

And now, I can't have you, dearest Food. I have picked up a light version of John's despicable stomach bug. Eating half a banana, the thing I find most tolerable at the moment, sends me to bed with queasiness for three hours. Those five bites of lasagna I had yesterday evening? I'm still regretting that, and it's 8:30 the next morning.

What have I done to you? Please, just tell me, and I'll apologize and make it up to you. I promise I'll never say whatever it was I said ever again!! Since Friday night, here's what I've eaten (and please bear in mind that it's now Tuesday!): 4 small slices of an amazing pizza from Two Rows; four Rolos; a hot dog; two bananas; five large, ill-advised bites of lasagna.

That's it! This is killing me!! Why can't we all just get along? I'm ready to kiss and make up, Food. I yearn for chicken pot pie, I long for a fresh fruit and yogurt smoothie, I pine for a big steaming bowl of brown rice, I weep for spice cake, my heart breaks for purple hulled peas, and I mourn the fact that I can't eat the pancakes I'm about to make for the rest of my family.

Why, God, why??? How do I fix this? I'm just hungry, and I want to eat without cursing the Food I love 10 minutes later. I'm very happy with my size, I feel no need to change it, and already my stellar boot cut jeans that may have been a tad on the ... uh ... fitted side aren't so fitted anymore. If this continues, I'll have to buy a belt!!!!

So, in closing, my darling Food, please get back to me soon. I miss you like a caged bird misses flight, like a sightless man misses colors, like a broken pen misses the poetry it once wrote. Please, please, let's make up and be friends once more.

Yours always and forever,
and with more love than you can imagine,

~Brea Stewart