To Eat or Not to Eat...

I eat. I eat and eat and eat. Not fruits and vegetables. Don’t be silly! Carbs and sugar and all varieties therein are the new go-to foods.

Mac and Cheese, right out of the blue box. Green chile cheeseburgers, the trademark burger of New Mexico, always accompanied by tots and a malted milkshake. Stew dumped from a can, heated in the microwave. Tamales, also out of a can. Canned tamales can’t actually be called food, but they do bring comfort. 

I prefer cookies in dough form. I spent an hour making oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, using oats in an effort to trick myself into thinking they were healthy. The first half dozen were so god-awful that the chickens got a midday treat. My butter and eggs were not at room temperature. I diagnosed this after binge-watching The Great British Baking Show, so now I know. Luckily, this faux pas only affected the cooking process, so two dozen cookies (minus 6) are down the hatch in cookie dough form. 

Michael makes me a nice dinner. Doctors up a pre-made Walmart cheese pizza with whatever we have in the fridge and chop, chop, chopping the same ingredients for a salad. I eat every bit. An hour later, I rummaged in the cupboards and returned with a bowl of cold cereal. An hour after that, Michael safely tucked into bed, I dump the remains of a tortilla chip bag on a baking sheet and liberally toss pre-shredded Fiesta Blend cheese over the stale chips. Acne-like dollops of salsa are scattered about, and evening meal number three slides into the oven. Nachos in name only; they are a perfect post-post dinner snack. 

A trip to Las Cruces finds me starving. The car swerves into a crowded What-A-Burger parking lot. It was the first-ever such swerve my car has made, but I am a slave to new and not improved stomach cravings. “Bacon cheeseburger with extra large onion rings, please.” A giant styrofoam cup is slid across the counter, part of my #5 meal bargain. (styrofoam? Really!? The small part of my brain that still has the capacity to care squeaks a protest on behalf of the environment.) 

I head to the wall of drink dispensers and, bypassing the water and sugar-free lemonade, go straight for the Barques Root Beer, a childhood once-in-a-blue-moon treat. Pushing the cup against the plastic tab brings a gush of sugar, artificial color, and fizzy water. Ice cubes fight their way to the top and clink against my teeth as I take a big swig and top it off once more, getting my money's worth. Heavenly ambrosia. I down the whole 32 ounces in between wiping fast food grease off my chin. 

A now usual breakfast: eggs - scrambled - 3, with mushrooms, onions, peppers, and cheese. Two toasted English muffins spread with butter, one topped with honey, and one with homemade peach jam. A smoothie and cheese quesadilla makes a good second breakfast, usually needed.

Lunch is a modest tuna and crackers. The tuna with perfectly diced Famous Daves Bread and Butter pickles - HOT variety, and an extra dollop of mayo for good measure. I unfortunately run out of tuna before my packet of crackers is gone, but an almost empty peanut butter jar comes to the rescue. When the last morsel is scraped out, four crackers remain. Too few to go back in the box. Cheese! The cheese drawer has Tillamook pepper jack, and four large wedges are sliced off and carefully placed on the remaining saltines. One more is sliced for immediate consumption, extra energy for the exhausting journey back into the living room. 

If people offer me food, I eat. If Michael makes me food, I eat. If I am bored or sad or depressed or angry or overcome by guilt and despair, I eat. 

I eat and eat and EAT! I eat to fill the hole, the ravenous, gaping maw, the Adam-sized emptiness in the center of my being. I eat…

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PS I have a large stack of GRIEF books stacked up by my bed. They all have checklists: not eating/overeating are two symptoms of grief, seemingly not at the same time. So, to all those who love me, I will not be fading away any time soon. Adam got his eating genes from someone (: That boy could EAT!