Becoming a Foodie (Without Making My Husband Hate Me)

Disclaimer: Strange, exposing stories AND photos of myself lie ahead. If you think of me and think “Yeah, no, I wouldn’t care to be seen with her at the beach”, then don’t look. To everyone else, I honestly don’t care.

Ah, food. A thing I literally can’t live without.

My relationship to food has always been somewhat of a love/hate with a splash of Stockholm syndrome. As a kid, there were things I loved…

Chicken strips, chicken nuggets…basically any kind of bready chicken that could only be enhanced by ranch dressing.

…things I hated….

Don’t even wanna put up a picture of mushrooms.

…and things I grew to love against my will, because at my mom’s table [read: restaurant because ain’t nobody got time to cook] if you complained, you got nothing.

Which I really enjoy now. #stockholm’d

Which I was given for breakfast almost every morning and despised so much that I sat my butt in my bowl “accidentally” one day, so that I wouldn’t have to eat it. This was a two-for-one deal, since I got to change my pants…that I also hated. Was I a bad child?

As I grew older, the concept of food became weirder and weirder. Due to the approaching Apocalypse, Mom took me to Costco every couple of months so we could load up another wagon with bags of rice and beans we never cooked, garden seeds we never planted, and flats of non-perishable items we never cracked open. It all sat in a barn, stacked to the ceiling, for 4 years, wasted and ravaged by squirrels. We tried drying our own fruit by spending hours coring and slicing up apples, and then looping each piece onto strings that hung across our ceiling in the kitchen. They hung there for at least a year, gathering layers of dust and smoke before we even remembered they were there.

This food that I thought was so important had absolutely no meaning to me at all.

Then came the fight-for-my-life days. With my carefully hoarded (and somewhat illegally obtained) house cleaning and babysitting money, I lived off of the Dollar Store aisles and the kindness of other people for 3 years.

Food was essential, and I burned through it like water; this stick of a girl with a J-lo butt, just trying to survive. The rest of my womanly shape didn’t start developing until I was at least 24, coincidentally, when I started dating Steve. He took good care of me, and still does; I’ve never wanted for anything.

Things started to go a little downhill from there. I spent 3 1/2 weeks in Europe, consuming glorious bread and cheese wherever I went, thinking that my calorie-burning metabolism would carry me through.

And then my body was like, “HAHA! PSYCH!!! You’re gonna MOVE to a new city, and you’re gonna get MARRIED, and he’s gonna be allergic to EVERYTHING, and I’m just dying to take on all the stress you’re gonna feel!!!!!”


March 2011, trying on a dress in Le Chateau that was to. die. for. (130lbs.)


Last summer, in a bikini NO ONE over the age of 15 should be wearing.


This morning. Probably about the same weight as last summer, if I’m honest, but I think I look (and feel) healthier here.


I know I’m not obese, per se, but I have felt extremely unbalanced, to the point where I almost don’t love food anymore.

And that sounds like a tragedy.

So we’re going to change it. Steven and I are going on a food adventure!

Since most of my cookbooks are so 1996, I’m looking to the Internet for some tasty recipes that are as gluten-wheat-dairy-nut-soy-rice-garlic-lentil free as possible for the man (Sorry, honey, sugar sandwiches from your mom don’t actually count) and as healthy/balanced as possible for myself.

And because I’m still me, I think I’ll start with this.

Has anyone else out there battled with food, allergies, self-esteem or Apocalypse-themed Costco trips? I wanna hear about it.

PS: BAHAHA I was literally going to end the post there, and then my husband walked in with a bag full of Wendy’s. Clearly, we’re still packing for the adventure. 😉