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Food: Relationships to Eating

I met my best friend Johnny when we were ten. He was the skinniest kid in elementary school, and I was the fattest. He nicknamed me “Whale” because, as I grew to 288 pounds on a 5-foot-10 frame, I’m sure I resembled one.

I realized at an early age that I wasn’t loved or even wanted by my parents. My mother wasn’t ready to be a mother when I came along and probably never would be. Her best friend remarked once in my presence that “she was stuck with me now.” My father’s only concern was if he had enough beer in the refrigerator.

Growing up was tough. After a few beatings from my father, I made myself scarce at home. I started delivering newspapers at age ten, and from then on, I was made to give my father half of what I earned. I can still hear him calling me a bum when I didn’t contribute as much as he thought I should. Eventually, I got a job in a bakery that paid 95 cents an hour and let me have all the baked goods I could eat. So eat I did! It was the beginning of my journey into obesity.

Other jobs that followed, such as golf caddie, supermarket bagger and gas station attendant, afforded me the luxury of feeding my ever-increasing appetite and ever-expanding girth. I thought at first that my mother was shrinking all my clothes, but then I realized that I was just getting fatter by the week. Going to a local soda shop and ordering three tuna fish sandwiches, fries and a large Coke was my reward to myself every day for working hard and doing well in school. Little did I realize I was actually trying to escape my feelings and swallow my pain.

Because I played sports and was somewhat successful, I avoided the direct scorn of most of the guys. That was reserved for overweight girls, who were mercilessly picked on. Nonetheless, I knew I was an outsider, someone to mock when I wasn’t around, but respected when on the ball field. Because of my size, I always looked older than I really was.

Once, during a sandlot baseball game, playing with boys two and three years older than me, there was a kid named Leonard, who I didn’t know from Adam. He started calling me “fatass,” “fatso” and “pig” until, finally, I'd had enough. I was the catcher, so when Leonard came up to bat, I told him, “If your mother would feed you, you wouldn’t be so damn weak and skinny.”

Well, a major fistfight broke out between the two of us, and I thought I was about to get killed for sure. There was no way I could get out of the way of his punches. I was on the ground ready to plead for my life when a few of the guys pulled him off of me. I knew then that I should just try to ignore the slings and arrows that came my way. It didn’t make them hurt any less.

Love—and Lots of Therapy—Helped Me Conquer My Eating Habits

When I was 18, I met a wonderful girl who seemed to love me for who I was, not what I looked like. We were married two years later and have stayed married for 54 years. Through her constant reinforcement of love and many years of therapy, I managed to lose 100 pounds and a lot of other excess baggage.

I have come to realize that obesity is a disease shared by millions, but unlike other maladies, there is no sympathy. Can’t we as human beings just accept people for who they are on the inside and not what they look like on the outside? Must the world be ruled by appearances and a number on the scale?

Once upon a time, fat was in vogue. Kings and queens, the rich and successful, were all extra large. But that all changed as we moved into the 20th century. Soon after, the saying “you can never be too rich or too thin” became a mantra. Fat people were discriminated against in the job market and were made to feel like lesser human beings with no willpower—until, of course, the weight loss business evolved into the multimillion dollar industry it is today.

I still fight the battle every day to control my weight. It is a constant struggle which, I must admit, sometimes I lose. I get an overwhelming urge to eat my face off because I earned it, gosh darn it! Of course, I feel so very guilty afterwards. My brain knows the key is moderation in all things, but my stomach occasionally overrules my mind. I guess Johnny was right when he told me, “Whale, you’ll never get enough to eat!”

I grew up fat, smart and miserable—and went on to find happiness.

They Called Me 'Whale': My Journey Through Overeating

I learned the importance of good food at an early age, thanks to my mother, who happened to be an exceptional cook. The meals she prepared for us were never ordinary. While most of my friends' families ate sides of canned vegetables with their main entrée, we dined on fresh asparagus drizzled with hollandaise sauce. Her greens were always prepared in browned butter or some sort of fancy wine sauce that I couldn't pronounce. We didn't have a regular pot roast for Sunday dinner like other families—we had beef Wellington wrapped in a puff pastry shell with foie gras and bearnaise sauce.

My mother didn’t grow up eating gourmet dinners. During the war years, when she was a child, her family lived on a lean budget where meat, butter and sugar were scarce. My father, however, was raised with a sophisticated palate, and he expected meals to be nothing less than gourmet and made from scratch. There was no such thing as Hamburger Helper in our home, and McDonald's had yet to find its way to our small town.

My Mother’s Cooking Was Exemplary—but It Wasn’t the Junk Food I Craved

Food was always the pivotal aspect of our holiday celebrations and dinner parties. Everyone from our next-door neighbors to members of the Exchange Club wanted an invite to one of our gatherings. Mom was "the hostess with the mostest"—the quintessential Donna Reed in her shirtwaist dress, high heels and string of pearls draped elegantly around her neck as she circulated the room with platters of hors d'oeuvres. My father was the bartender, mixing Harvey Wallbangers for his friends as Eydie Gormé's "Blame It on the Bossa Nova" played on the turntable in the background.

To impress guests, they served plenty of buttery escargots nestled in tiny trays, and beluga caviar served on toast wedges. My siblings devoured these gourmet treats, but I would have been much happier with a bowl of potato chips and onion dip. I didn't care if the caviar came from the Caspian Sea—it was still a smelly mound of fish eggs to me, and I wanted nothing to do with it. If I refused to try a particular food, I was sent to my room for the evening. Being the stubborn kid that I was, no amount of garlic butter was going to tempt me to eat something that looked like the slugs on our sidewalk after a good rain.

My Junk Food Addiction Was Rooted in a Desire for Comfort Food

Occasionally, my mother would revert to her family roots and cook the kind of simple foods popular in her Connecticut home when money was scarce: bacon spaghetti; hot rice mixed with butter and sweetened condensed milk; grilled cheese sandwiches. These were my favorites. They were the least expensive and easiest to make, but they were the ones I appreciated most because I could taste my mother's love in every savory bite.

Another reason I preferred her simple recipes over the gourmet dinners she prepared was because they were the closest thing I could get to comfort food. What I really wanted was store-bought junk food, but it wasn't allowed in our house. My parents made it clear that packaged snacks were unhealthy and would only add unnecessary pounds to our bodies. Being overweight was unacceptable, and being unable to control what we put in our mouths was considered a weakness of character. But being denied the same fast foods and fried snacks that other families enjoyed only intensified my desire to have them.

Luckily, my best friend, who lived down the street, had tubs of Charles Chips delivered regularly to her family's doorstep. Naturally, I coveted those tan metal buckets filled with salty potato chips and pretzels. As soon as the delivery truck pulled into my friend's driveway, it was as if Pavlov had rung the bell. I raced across the street and waited at her kitchen table like a salivating dog until the first tin was opened.

I Was a Junk Food Junkie, Hiding My Addiction From My Parents

I discovered other ways to get my junk food fix without my parents’ knowledge. We could afford penny candies from the nearby convenience store by pooling my allowance money with my sister's. If we were low on coins, we scoured the neighborhood for empty soda bottles that we could recycle for cash. One bottle was worth a nickel, the equivalent of five pieces of bubble gum back in the mid-1960s. If we earned a dollar or two between us, we would splurge on a box of Little Debbie cakes or a handful of candy bars, which we carefully hid in our sock drawer. Then, when the timing was right, we snuck our contraband to the nearby park and devoured chocolate bars behind a thick hedge next to the baseball diamond. The adrenaline rush of sneaking forbidden, pre-packaged treats and eating them in secret made the sugary candy on my tongue taste even more delicious than the fancy desserts my mother made.

My older siblings shared my obsession with food and had the same deep appreciation for my mother's culinary skills. As soon as we walked through the front door after school, we were enveloped in the comforting aromas of garlic marinara simmering on the stove or cinnamon apple turnovers baking in the oven. We hovered in the kitchen every afternoon to sneak tastes of whatever my mother was cooking. I hated that she was strict about eating healthy, small portions when we sat down for dinner. Most of the time, I finished my food before anyone else at the table and was often reprimanded for eating too quickly. But I couldn't help it. I was always hungry. Even after cleaning my plate, I could never get enough carbs to satisfy my demanding stomach. So on the nights when my food cravings were particularly intense, I'd excuse myself from the table to "help with the kitchen clean up" and then sneak spoonfuls of pasta from the pot until my stomach felt like it was going to burst. Only then did I feel satiated.

At the time, I didn't realize the disturbing pattern developing; food had become the focal point of my life. Everything revolved around what I was going to eat and when I was going to eat it. I had developed a mindset about food where it was either "good" or "bad." If I was having a particularly rough day, fried junk food was my drug of choice I turned to for a euphoric high. Comfort food was “bad” food, and comfort food was the equivalent of love.

My Husband Thought My Whole Family Had a Problem

Years later, after I married, my husband was astounded by how food-centric my family was. We were obsessed, he claimed. "You talk about food while you're eating food. And when you're not eating, you're reading recipes to one another over the phone and planning meals for the week ahead."

I was taken aback by his remarks. Didn't all families do this? Were we really so different?

I figured my husband was exaggerating. After all, he'd grown up in a large family with a single mother who cooked on a tight budget. Food was not available in abundance, and meals were more about sustenance than taste. My husband was an active child who only ate when he was hungry. He didn't wake each morning as I did and salivate at the thought of buttery crepes and jam for breakfast or wonder all day what would be served for dinner. He didn't scour the pantry in search of tea biscuits or feel the need to sneak bags of chocolate baking chips to eat in the privacy of a blanket fort.

It Was the COVID-19 Quarantine That Made Me Realize I’m Addicted to Eating

Rather than admitting to him or to anyone else that I had a problem with food, I kept my addiction to myself and continued to eat in secret. I wasn't above sneaking leftovers from my family's plates, and I still stashed candy in my bedroom dresser. (Old habits never die.) I also hid snacks in the back of the pantry where no one could see them. But I was careful to control my appetite when people were around—I'd only eat an acceptable amount from my plate and set the rest aside. Knowing I could return to it later and indulge when no one was around was part of the thrill. There was nothing more pleasurable than binge eating without anyone knowing how much I'd consumed.

Over the years, food was the one thing I thought I could control, especially when I felt overwhelmed by the demands of running a household or playing Switzerland in the never-ending drama that plagued my extended family. But it didn't occur to me that food was actually in control of 

 until the world went into lockdown in 2020.

I baked away my stress during the pandemic, binging on homemade bread, cookies and platefuls of creamy fettuccine Alfredo. I was on a food bender, an endless endorphin high that kept me floating for months in complete ignorance of the addiction I had succumbed to. Cooking was my excuse to combat boredom and loneliness during the quarantine months. Overfeeding my family was my way of expressing love.

One morning as I was putting together a grocery list and dreaming of the delectable meals I would prepare, my husband squeezed my hand and told me to stop. Stop cooking. Stop obsessing. Stop searching for love and acceptance through food. "When was the last time you actually tasted food?" he asked.

He was right. My taste buds had grown dull from months of overeating. Everything tasted the same, and none of it brought me joy anymore. There were times I couldn't even recall eating—it had become as robotic as driving the same route home every day or washing my face before bed each night.

It took a photo that my daughter sent of me with my grandkids to shock me into the reality of how my food addiction was affecting my appearance. I looked puffy and unhealthy. I thought of all the things I liked to binge on—doughnuts, chicken wings, pizza—and how they often left me sluggish and nauseous. I realized I was tired of feeling that way and was ready for a change.

For Me, Overcoming Food Addiction Was About Changing My Perception of Food

I worked with a nutritionist who offered emotional support and helped me incorporate healthier eating behavior. I retrained my taste buds and started using standard calculating portion sizes for meals. I learned about proteins, fats and carbohydrates and how they worked with my body. But most of all, the process taught me that food, although made with love, is not love in itself. Instead, it is fuel for the body and should not be abused by mindless eating.

Today, I make better choices about what I put on my plate, and I take the time to enjoy what I eat. Of course, there are days when I indulge on special occasions. Chocolate cake on my granddaughter's birthday? Yes, please! But I don't eat to the point of numbing my taste buds and feeling drunk on food.

Every now and then, though, I give in to my childhood craving for a bowl of Mom's bacon spaghetti. And it tastes just the way I remember it—made with a mother's love.

An insatiable desire for junk food as a child turned into a dangerous dependence on food.

My Food Addiction Success Story: How I Tamed My Eating Habits

For as long as I can remember, I was the chubby child, always trying to lose weight. When I turned 8, my parents actively encouraged me to diet. They constantly made comments about my body. They also insulted their friends who were bigger—they called them lazy and commented about how much dessert they’d eaten at dinner. Seeing extended family was much the same. “Oh, you’ve gained weight!” they’d say, calling us names meant to be endearing in our language that really meant “cute fatty.” I clocked all of this messaging, and I knew that the thing I wanted to be the least was fat.

The catch was that our family loved to eat. We were all passionate about food and cooking. We could spend hours discussing recipes and meals we liked, down to fine details about ingredients and spices. But if we ate too much, there were always sentiments of guilt and self-hate. My father would often pinch his belly between his fingers with disgust. I developed a binge-eating habit where I would hide and binge on chocolates, cookies, ice cream, whatever I found. I’d always save up the little pocket money I had to buy more chocolates and hide them in my room, eating them when I was alone. After a few particularly big binges, I’d try throwing up. I never managed to make it work though—my body wouldn’t comply. This didn’t stop me from trying, but the fact that I never actually threw up gave me a false sense of security that I didn’t have an eating disorder. Plus, I was the fat brown girl. Only skinny white girls had eating disorders.

My Complicated Relationship With Food Limited My Career Aspirations

After college, I worked in the nonprofit industry. But its hectic activist environment made me feel burnt out and always anxious, and I started having depression. Cooking became a source of joy in my life, and it became my escape from the tough work culture I’d thrown myself into. My weight fluctuated, but it usually went up more every time I gained it. Sometimes, I’d daydream about pursuing a food career, but I never let my mind wander too far. “You can’t be fat and admit to loving food,” I thought, or at least, I was made to think.

After a few more years of working hectic jobs, I experienced an even deeper burnout and depression, leaving me unemployed for three years. I searched for jobs but never got anywhere. My self-esteem plummeted with each rejection. I ended up setting up a stall at food markets, making all sorts of baked goods, hot meals and iced teas to try to make some money. I was financially dependent on my husband, and my desperation for wanting to help out made me put all concerns about working with food aside.

Even though it was really hard work for little pay, I always enjoyed talking to customers and other vendors about food—their stories, their memories and their recipes. I’d always write about these conversations in my journal, finding pleasure in reliving them and storing new cooking tips. I discovered community through these conversations, and I realized that my food passion actually made me good at something. When it came to food, I knew my stuff.

The food career daydreams started to come back. Still, I’d started to come to terms with the fact that I had some complicated issues around it. My therapist never used the term eating disorder, but she made me aware of my relationship with food. This became my self-imposed obstacle for not pursuing a culinary career. There was no way I could think and write about food all day, consuming food media, without making my “issue” worse. Plus, I would just gain more weight.

Therapy Helped Me Admit My Eating Disorder

Around this time, I learned about a term I’d never known about: fatphobia. When I first heard about it, I felt some resistance. My whole life, my family wanted me to lose weight for my “health.” 

, I thought. I started reading more and educating myself about it. I couldn’t believe some of what I’d read, about the flaws behind the scientific research on body weight and BMI. I’d also started to read about how society was anti-fat and how fat people experienced all kinds of discrimination by doctors, the media and family and friends. All of it was familiar from experience, but I’d found it more difficult to swallow seeing it happen to someone else. It made me reevaluate everything.

The breakthrough didn’t happen all at once. It took months to digest this whole different mindset, finding resources on intuitive eating and the negative effects of dieting. Thanks to help from a psychologist, I eventually admitted I had an eating disorder. I also wrote my first journalistic article about food and it was really well-received. I had so much fun writing it. For the people who knew and loved me, it just made sense. I continued writing and interviewing more people. I discovered that I loved the story behind food more than actually cooking it, and that food journalism was a legitimate career.

While practicing intuitive eating, I actually gained more weight. But this time, I understood I was healing and no longer had a scarcity mindset. I wasn’t binging anymore, enjoying all sorts of food without feeling heightened anxiety around the amount I was eating or when and how I would burn it off. I was simply eating. I even found more pleasure in eating vegetables and salads. Letting go of the notions of “good foods” and “bad foods” helped me to find true joy in all the food I had eaten in my dieting attempts. My mental health was in a good place for the first time in years. I was visiting all sorts of cafes and restaurants, trying different foods to write about them, their makers and their histories. I was a fat food journalist, and it’s exactly what I was meant to be.

I’m Not Giving up on My Career, Despite the Challenges I Still Face

Over the years, I’ve become more aware of how fatphobia plays out in the culinary industry. Have you ever noticed that you don’t see fat people eat at restaurants? It was gendered, racialized and classed, of course. Other than the treatment you can get from staff and other diners, in many places, seats just couldn’t accommodate a fat body. Sometimes, I could barely squeeze myself into them. And there were times I had to ask for a different chair, which wasn’t always available.

This whole interaction made me feel uncomfortable and unwelcomed. And even though I had done so much mental work about being fat positive, I’d feel ashamed. However, it helped me not to give up on my career. I wanted to be unapologetically fat 

 a gourmand. There is a lot that needs to change in this industry—from racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, abuse and much, much more. As for me, I’m going to continue taking up as much space—physically and metaphorically—as I need to.

I’d experienced the effects of fatphobia throughout my life, but I didn’t let that deter me from my passion.