feeding time

I am a failed bulimic.
I couldn’t ever get the purge part right. I loved the eating part – if it was a food I loved I just wanted to keep enjoying the delicious sensations. I would ignore the protests of my stomach to satisfy mouthfeel cravings.
Chocolate, yes. But also fresh bread with butter, salty butter, salty cheese. Creamy cheese – less cream cheese, more buttery tangy cheese. And butters of all kinds – seeds, nuts, fruits – tapenades and spreads, anything that goes with bread, I loved it. A less than ideal model’s diet so I had to either learn discipline or try my hand at a finger down the throat. That was not a trend I could follow well. I tried alternate avenues but they quickly took a toll on my internal landscape. I had to learn discipline. I was lucky to heal and recover from the disordered eating. I still love all things bread and am lucky I can still enjoy them, although my vigilance is constant. Feeding time is a disciplined affair.

I remember going to a petting zoo as a little kid and the thrill of being there for feeding time. In my memory it was llamas but that was highly unlikely in southern Ontario. Probably deer. I learned it was very important for the well being of the animal to maintain strict feeding times. There were prominent “Do Not Feed the Animals” signs because an endless line of kids with sticky fists full of seed wanted to commune with nature regardless of the hour. Later I learned that the best trained dogs have regulated feeding schedules. Most dogs quickly learn when diner time is and will remind you if you lose track of it. Since joining the pandemic bread making trend I’ve learned that sourdough starter feeding time is yet another disciplined production. Like human babies the sour dough starter responds favorably to tender loving care.

Timing is key in food and comedy. There is nothing funny about crashing blood sugars. Healthy metabolisms need healthy routines. My sourdough starter’s feeding schedule gives a layer of structure to the chaos of my pandemic calendar. Feeding time, proofing time, kneading time, managing all of it makes or breaks a perfect loaf. I haven’t yet made a perfect loaf, but I’m completely satisfied every time. The alchemy of simple flour and water nourishes more than my gut.

Baking is also a metaphor for what I’m feeding my mind during these days with tenuous boundaries. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday are fairly stable but time becomes fluid between Wednesday and Thursday. Thursday suddenly becomes Friday without my noticing. Moods and emotions turn as readily as a weathervane on a high peak. Thoughts roam wild and free in the savanna of my mind. They feast savagely on whatever fancy passes by: today I will wear red lipstick with pajamas, tonight I will eat potato chips and hummus with a lovely pinot noir, or perhaps I’ll make an elaborate curry; maybe I’ll flat iron my hair and put on shoes; maybe I’ll have anchovy toast for lunch and dinner because this loaf is almost perfect. But there are other thoughts too, less whimsical and fun, more dark and dangerous. They are wily and vicious, creeping in unnoticed. I try to be a vigilant warden. I try not to feed them. I monitor my clicks and screen time. I cannot read all the news, I cannot ingest all the grief. I have a hard time digesting rage. I meditate. It feeds my spirit and settles my mind. I pay attention to what I feed my mind as much as what I feed my body. I try and keep disorder out of feeding time.
How are you eating these days friends?
What are you feeding yourselves?
I’d love to swap recipes, literal or figurative.