Why I Don't Chew My Food or Why I Eat Like a Barn Animal

I try not to pay attention when I eat. I just try to get as much in my mouth, my throat, my stomach, my guts, in the shortest amount of time possible.

The other day my friend brought me a Tupperware container full of this beautifully nourishing rice dish she had cooked, and I took off the cover and ate with my hands. “I should have brought a fork,” my friend said, but neither of us were really that surprised I was standing on the lawn eating with my hands. I mean, duh. It’s me. I eat my pizza by folding it in half so I can eat a piece with startling efficiency.

When I was a baby, my mother used to watch in amazement as I’d guzzle down a bottle of formula in what she considered to be record time. When I was older, she’d imitate the way I drank as a baby, cheeks puffing in and out, lips making smacking sounds as if I was trying to kiss my way to the other side of the bottle.

I was a fat baby. When my mother would push me in the carriage down Riverside Drive in New York, people would stop her to look at me (this was the 1960s when people carried curiosity instead of cell phones). The people would tell my mom I should be in baby food commercials.

All my life I’ve been afraid that whatever I’m eating is about to disappear. You know that big moment when, after the baby has survived the insane head-squishing birth process, it either latches on to the mother’s breast or to a bottle held by the mother? That’s the hug and kiss Odysseus got from Penelope when he finally made it back home. It’s Mary’s touch after Jesus came back to life. It’s the snap of the camera when you cross the marathon finish line. We do something incredible and then there’s the thing, the reason, the grounding force after a dangerous journey that tells us we made it, we’re home safe.

So what happens when you get not-the-thing your body has been programmed to expect? What happens when you don’t get the breast milk that matches your DNA? What happens when you don’t get a bottle and eye contact that mirrors your DNA?

I would hazard to guess you hope each meal afterwards is a gateway to the meal you really want. (Maybe I’m just writing about my own weird self here, but after talking with so many other adopted people about their eating habits, I feel fairly comfortable in saying that I’m not alone here.) I would also hazard to guess that food itself is both a promise and a disappointment. There’s the hope you will finally be full in the right way, and then there is the hunger beneath the fullness that keeps you from feeling fully satiated.

I think the answer is to move to Paris and to eat like (non-adopted) Europeans. I think the trick is to have small portions of food so delicious you think your head is going to explode and so you WANT to chew slowly so you don’t miss any of the taste. (I have no idea if Parisian adoptees struggle with food the same way I do. I have to do some research.) This answer is sort of just a giant excuse to go to one of the best cities in the world more than a real answer. But it’s a little bit of an answer.

The food I eat is generally not great. It’s good. It’s often organic. But does it taste so good I want to linger over every bite?

No.

So there’s something I could work on: learn to cook like a boss.

Also: find food I want to chew until it’s a pulp and not big chunks of itself.

Also: come to terms with the fact that this is the life I have, so I might as well savor every moment.

I hear something in the kitchen calling my name. It’s either a banana or a tamale. I’ll know in a minute.

For Elizabeth who was worried because I hadn’t written.