To Be Fed After a Long Hunger

L was the executive chef at the clinic. She wore bright colored cooking smocks and we both bonded over our Holy Medals and our love for all things culinary.

My orthorexia and anorexia were raging when I got to the clinic. My first meal there, even though they begged me to eat more, was one little jar of unsweetened applesauce and some vanilla pudding in addition to the cocktail of pills pumping through my system.

I first met L in line for lunch the following day. Dazed and confused off of my valium drip, I asked her what was good.

In her honeyed, Cuban accent she told me: “try the Grouper sandwich with Boom Boom sauce,” her voice was plaintive and serene, trustworthy. But did she have the special bread I could eat?

She nodded solemnly and with great trust.

“You sit,” she said, “I’ll bring it to you;”

And so, I sat by myself with my Carrie Fisher book on the little patio and waited. When the sandwich arrived, I saw that the Grouper was freshly grilled with just a sprinkle of Old Bay and smoked paprika, the Boom Boom sauce was drizzled elegantly over top, and it was sandwiched between two pieces of my favorite bread, the bread that wouldn’t kill me if I had a crumb of it.

I sat and ate that sandwich and felt nourished for the first time in weeks. I ate every last inch of it and I ate the bag of Lay’s potato chips as well and I polished off my fountain Coca-Cola. And when I was done, I came up to L near her kitchen and I thanked her profusely, hugging her bright pink frame.

My entire time there, L fed me. She’d make me Ropa Vieja with Fried Plantains. Salmon with Sweet Potatoes and Yellow Rice. Ribeye Steak with Crispy Potatoes. Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Breakfast Sandwiches. Grilled Chicken Caesar salads. And almost always, humble and yet steadfast BLTs for lunch.

My favorite was when she’d surprise me with her meringue, little heavenly clouds dyed the color of forget-me-nots. She’d hug me while I sat at the lunch table bench, me in my white t-shirt and blue jeans, her in her bright pink cooking smock, our Holy Medals clinking and our tiny frames full of beautiful food.