Apple

It may sound a little strange but since last Sunday not even my parents can deny it any longer, since last Sunday my sister is an apple.
Not a green apple with chubby cheeks and not a healthy red one with yellow spots either, no, more like a dry and brownish one bitten all over. She has only one strand of hair left so even that looks like a branch.
She just sits in her chair at the kitchen window, just sits and stares with dry eyes which have long forgotten to see and schtum, yes schtum, and this may sound nasty but that is a relieve after all that apple-biting noises she made in the last few years.

You see, Jessica decided on her 16th birthday that she would only eat apples.
No matter what our parents, her friends or even I said to her, threatened her with, she just smiled and polished an apple.
The first year we tried everything. We had her examined by a psychologist and a physician who could not figure her out and we even took her to Lourdes. She lost a lot weight the first year but seemed to be okay after a while. The doctors suggested trying to get other food into her by making apple pie, or apple pancakes or even candy apples but my sister would always scrub the dough away, scrub the sugar away and just eat the apples.

Over the next year, she developed a routine of eating apples by colours. In the morning she started with a green Granny Smith. Her first bite was her favourite. Loudly she smacked and spattered Granny Smith’s fluid all over the table – believe me after a while, just the sound of it gave me goose bumps.
For lunch, her favourite were tiny red apples like the ones you want to find in your stockings but she used to grate them with the core and with the leaves until they were a mere red and then brown pulp, believe me after a while only the flies liked the smell.
For dinner she always started with some apple juice, gulping down the first glass, and smiling, and some days you thought: now. Now, she is eating again. Now, she is over it. But then she started to cut one or two yellow apples, the ones that are sweet and soft, just on the edge of being rotten but not quite and all you heard at our dinner table were her teeth pricking and her swallowing and in the end you saw, I mean you HAD to see her tongue. Her tongue came out and licked her mouth and I had to look away, I had to.
I can’t say that we got used to it but we kind of adapted ourselves to the situation. Just as we thought it can’t get worse she started to climb the trees. Apple trees of course.
The first time she was rescued by the fire department like a damn cat. The second time my father and I got a hold of her, but the third time and all the other times she fell. Each time she fell she broke something, and each time it would need longer to heal. Eventually, she stopped healing. The doctors said she needed a feeding tube but she cried so loudly that my parents didn’t go through with it. After a while, she just sat in her chair by the window. My parents started to feed her apple puree three times a day. One day they wanted to make me do it but this is where I drew the line. No way. The apple puree was not so bad though. It came in little glasses and I kind of liked the plop it made when they opened it. It was not smelly at all and she just gulped it spoon by spoon. But in the end, her tongue would come out, I would have to look away.

Now, I haven’t seen her tongue in a long time but, since last Sunday, my own tongue has an urge to come out. I find myself licking my lips, and, just staring at her dry apple form makes my mouth water. This can’t be true. No, believe me, this is not true. I am forcing my tongue to stay in my mouth and that’s why my mouth waters. From time to time I can smell apples but that is not so farfetched considering the circumstances. What really annoys me is that I daydream about climbing trees. I climb up like an ape and pick fruit which make me shudder. I swear, I swear I will not eat them. Not one. Never.

Twice as much ain't twice as good

It's not really about food.

"I wish I could eat like you. I'd have no problems losing weight." Pia says to me at lunch. Then she looks at my tummy. Well, if I always ate like I do at work I'd have no problems losing weight either. I pick at my salad, limp and soggy, drenched in that kind of dressing you only get at restaurants. White and milky with a taste like starch.

The afternoon at work seems to pass backwards. On top of everybody working as if in slow motion I have to sit through one of these meetings which are held solely because my boss likes to hear himself talk. Also, it's good to make him feel in charge.

I'm hungry. I'm always hungry. In the afternoon Pia brings a big tray of gummi bears. I never eat sweets at work. There's no point.

Just when I'm about to leave the phone rings, and I have to deal with my boss yet again. Obviously he feels that I'm not enough of a team player. Ugh. It seems that somebody accused me of pushing too hard. Brain-dead snails, the whole lot of them.

Finally, I'm out. Today I'll take good care of myself. I'll take a nice bath, steam some dumb vegetables, and go for a walk later. It will make me feel great.

I'm hungry. My feet walk to the grocery store out of their own accord. I'll just get a bit of chocolate. I had a bad day, I deserve a little treat. Just one or two pieces after dinner. There it is. Chocolate. Mmm. Home.

Finally there. I kick off my heels, get out of the constriction that's the "power suit", jacket with shoulder pads, short skirt, blouse that I can't lift my arms in, pantyhose, underwire bra. Finally able to inhale all the way again.

While dressing in yoga pants, a tee, a hoodie, and two pairs of soft socks, I put the Red Hot Chili Peppers on. Loud. That's better.

I'm beat. Open the fridge, get a cold beer. Fetch a glass. Unpack the chocolate, potato chips, gummi bears, and licorice. Pour the beer. Put everything on a tray together with my novel. I sit down in bed with my tray, and the remote control. Finally, I can relax.

I open the bag of potato chips first. They smell delicious, I put them in my mouth, and they crackle as I bite down. I'll only eat a few, and then I'll put the bag away. Spicy, crunchy, garlicky, hot. Just a few more, just a few. Now a sip of beer. A bit of licorice interspersed with the gummi bears. Chips, beer, gummi bears, licorice.

I start reading. The next time I look up the chips are gone. Oh no. I did it again.
I'm feeling bad. Bloated. Fat. Unworthy. I finish the chocolate. Whatever. I get up and fetch another beer.

It's not my fault, food is the only thing I have. It's my security blanket, my comfort. It's like a cave. I dig myself in, and then I close the door. And I'm safe.

The taste, the texture, the feeling of being full.

It's my drug of choice. It makes life bearable. It isn't really important which food it is. It can be anything.

Of course, I'm not stupid. I know that it doesn't really help. But I do feel better. At least for the moment.

That feeling of the salt rush comes first. The blood races up into my head. Making me a bit breathless. Next comes the sugar high. My heart beating faster. All the while the fat makes me feel safe and warm. The beer like a clear mountain stream going down. It would all be fine if I could stop in time. Just a bit and then close the bags, and put it all away.

I totally lose control around food. There's this vortex in my middle. It's always hungry. It sucks me in, and it doesn't let go.

Afterwards I feel bad. Fat. Bloated. Weak. Sick. But the vortex still isn't satisfied. I'm still hungry. If I wait a bit I can finish off the second bag of potato chips. Maybe I should take up smoking. At least I wouldn't get fat.

If only I could stop eating altogether.

This is sick. Why can't I stop. Nobody's force-feeding me. I know I can do it. Tomorrow I'll eat nothing but salad and yoghurt all day.

Man Cook

My head's reeling; my hands tremble as I pour whisky into a tumbler. I wait with bottle tilted. Glug, glug, glug it goes until the surface of the liquid rises to a level corresponding to my current high level of depair. How high is it? It can't be that bad for I'm only a spectator--I'm not a hot-blooded curry chef. I take my first sip from the shaking glass.

***

I was lying on the sofa in the late afternoon, reading, when the sweet smell of onions first wafted in; wave followed wave of aroma, and as much as I tried to concentrate on my book, each word defiantly morphed into a little onion dancing off the page and floating into the air. I shut the book in frustration and went to check up on my father in the kitchen. He was preparing onion paste, frying a pan full of sliced onions to tranlucence, then blending them to a brown mush. It was the first step of the meticulous process that would take up half his day, the results of which would be presented in the dining room to the invited guests. He looked grim. This was serious.

I left him at work and took a walk outside along the suburban tree-lined road where the air was clear and did not smell of frying onions and did not cause salivation. But the food images were stuck in my mind, so I fumbled a cigarette from the pack in my pocket into my mouth. I took a suck at it before lighting--it was a different kind of sweetness from that of the onions, it was a sickly sweetness, and that sickly sweetness didn't make my mouth water for food but rather drove an urge in me to light up. Which I then did.

Later, I again visited the kitchen and watched while my father ground coriander and cumin seeds with his clay motar and added grated ginger and garlic and cinnamon and vinegar until he had a paste so fragrant that I was forced to make my escape again, to stop myself from ravenously losing control.

In the couple of hours that passed before dinnertime, the house became infused with the smell of lamb vindaloo. Now six people sat at the table: my mother, Aunt and Uncle, their two adult children, I. My father was still busy in the kitchen, but came in presently to serve papadums, which were hastily grabbed and crunched and munched away by all present to try put an end to the watering of mouths. And before long he returned with the main course in steaming dishes, the curry topped by the crisp green of chopped coriander.

"Mmm...delicious," said Aunt, as all started feeding themselves. And several mouthfuls later, having consumed a sufficient sample size, Uncle was ready to give gave his verdict. I knew from his expression that what he would say would be bad. Better left unsaid. And wrong anyway. But he couldn't stop himself--it was his way. He proclaimed, proudly bellowing the words out from his enormous belly:
"You know, when I was studying I had a couple of Indian lads staying a few doors down from me in the residence hall, and they showed my how to make a proper curry." I glanced over at my father. He had stopped eating at these words, but looked down at the food on his plate instead of at Uncle. Uncle continued:
"Yes, those Indians taught me how to make a proper curry back then. The key is not to use any water. Use butter or oil and it retains all the flavour. Water kills the flavour--it's fatal." He paused. And then continued:
"I'll tell you what: one of these coming Saturdays I'll invite you all over for a proper curry. You won't believe the difference." By now everyone was uneasily looking for something to rest their eyes on. Aunt looked most uncomfortable of all--in an awkward show, she started eating again and repeated her words from before:
"Mmm...delicious."
But it came out flat this time.

My father was dead still. He stared down at his plate; white knuckles squeezed untensils. A vein on his temple throbbed once...twice...three times and then...then he exploded: in a flash (and a wine-glass-breaking crash) he lunged over the table and grabbed with both hands at Uncle's throat. Aunt screamed; uncle gasped for air and flailed his arms around wildy, landing several blows to my father's head but to no avail, for my father's teeth were clenched and bared and his eyes filled with rage and most significantly: his grip stayed strong. All the time aunt screamed---so long, too long it seemed---until my mother stood up and shouted at my father in her most stern and clear and powerful tone and with her widest eyes:
"Stop that at once!"
And he did stop. Uncle gasped; my father dashed off. A door slammed down the passage.

I couldn't bear staying at the table, so I headed to the kitchen to pour myself a strong drink.