'Eat, Pray, Love' by Elizabeth Gilbert
Una Buona Forchetta. That used to be me. Una buona forchetta means ‘a good fork’, or ‘a good eater’. I’ve always been una buona forchetta, despite my tiny little bones and tiny little chicken legs (the stick part of the chicken leg, not the juicy thigh or drumstick, even). When I was a little kid, my big sister would sit beside me at the dinner table and stare at the mound of food on my plate. Then her big eyes would travel up to my scrawny elbows and then to my face which was busy getting right down to it, to the meal at hand. Then she would say, “You know, you don’t have to eat all that”. And I would say, while happily savoring, “Ya, I know”, and lick my plate.
I love food. I love real, Italian food. Whenever I’m hungry, I have waking dreams of sitting in an Italian restaurant in Rome, luxuriously eating and drinking wine for four hours over good conversation. I think the Italians have got it right. When I hear mothers complain about slaving away in the kitchen for hours and the family sits down at the table, gulps, and dashes, I want to cry.
But lately, I haven’t been able to eat. I haven’t been able to savor. Indeed, I have lost my apetite. Every time I’m hungry, I sit down to a delicious meal in anticipation. Now this will be it, I say. I will relish this, it will be satisfying, my heart and my stomach will be content and my plate empty. I take two bites, and I’m full, and I can’t taste a thing.
I know what this is. It’s called ‘Stress’. But it’s not the Stress that I’m stressing about, it’s the inability to enjoy a meal that’s got me worried and a bit out of wack. This morning, after a cozy read in bed during a thunderstorm, I thought, what could be a better idea than cooking up a plate of soft, silky, pale yellow scrambled eggs? (With a couple slices of tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, toast, and lots of butter, of course. Oh, and a mug of rich, dark coffee). I took my time with the eggs, as one is supposed to. Eggs are un-born babies and need to be treated delicately in any form of cooking. Folding, stiring, with the lightest of touches. I turned them on to my plate, and licked my fingers. I slowly brought the fork to my mouth, and sighed. Now these eggs, I said, are LOVE. They were delicious.
Two bites more, and I was done. Sigh.
I am currently reading ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ for the second time. I figure it will help me remember how to de-stress, stretch, meditate, find my place again, and enjoy a meal. Elizabeth Gilbert has now taken me to Rome, and I am eating up the words, if not my scrambled eggs. For now, she is reminding me to take care of myself.
