Someone once told me that the only reason they eat is because they have to. They find no pleasure in eating food. It’s merely something that they need to do to stay alive. They eat to live.
In a way, that made me sad. How could someone find no pleasure in food? To not enjoy what you’re eating is, well, sad. I couldn’t imagine eating and not liking food.
I live to eat. No. I LOVE to eat. I love to live to eat. I love food.
And maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I live to eat, when I really should be eating to live. Or somewhere in between.
Growing up, in my family, food was the center of all celebrations, big and small, happy and sad. If something good happened, we ate out. Birthdays, we made cakes. Anniversaries, we had dinners and cakes. Holidays were feasts fit for a large girthed king. Food. It was the center of our universe. The center of our being. It’s why we lived. We lived to eat glorious wonderful foods.
So, how do I find the middle ground?
I love cooking and baking, but somehow that always equates to fatty delicious meals and sweets. Who says I can’t enjoy cooking a more healthful option? No one. That’s who. Because I CAN cook healthier options. Cooking doesn’t always have to mean extravagant butter laced foods.
I don’t want my life to center itself around food anymore. I find myself becoming more and more conscious of my thoughts of food. I equate a lot of my feelings with food. Places with food. I don’t want to live to eat anymore. I want to coexist with my food. Make it a smaller part of my life, and a healthier one. I want to enjoy my food, but not love it. Because love doesn’t exist for an inanimate object. Food doesn’t love me back. Food doesn’t exist for me.
I simply want to coexist peacefully with my food.