It would be a lie to say I didn't find solace in food.
Studying every night trying to weave the intricate details of the Vietnam Conflict together when I only have four days to teach it; when I desperately want 18 year olds to understand the concepts, the insanity, of this war-- I crave fried spaghetti.
Involved in a tense phone conversation with a family member, I unconsciously drift to the kitchen, pull out cheese and crackers.
Overwhelmed by the writing of three, 2000 word essays due in a week, the Dutch chocolate with hazelnuts slowly disappears from the cupboard.
When I flew home to take care of Dad, I always made two cottage cheese pies. He enjoyed them, but those pies helped me cope with a cantankerous man who'd started falling and couldn't pick himself up.
Yesterday afternoon, driving home from my last day of teaching a stellar group of seniors, I craved mashed potatoes. Too much work to make from scratch, I popped a bowl of popcorn, melted butter and grated cheese to sprinkle on top.
Sometimes I'm not even aware of an emotional strain when out of the blue I want oatmeal cookies. I stop. Try to reflect. Try to understand. Once I clarify the stress I hadn't consciously acknowledged, I can set aside the oatmeal box and wait for dinner. If not, the slow practice of measuring, melting, and mixing, puts trouble on the shelf for just a minute. A minute respite might be all that's needed.
Though therapists, self-help gurus, and weight aficionados may suggest alternatives to comfort-eating, it can be an effective and temporary remedy for sadness, for confusion, and distraction from overwhelming burdens. But so is a walk, a phone call to a trusted friend, and especially reaching out and helping others.
Perhaps a combination of comforts is the best remedy for the blues. Baking cookies and sharing with a neighbor, a bike ride to babysit the grandkids, may be two of many seismic shifts out of sadness.
Studying every night trying to weave the intricate details of the Vietnam Conflict together when I only have four days to teach it; when I desperately want 18 year olds to understand the concepts, the insanity, of this war-- I crave fried spaghetti.
Involved in a tense phone conversation with a family member, I unconsciously drift to the kitchen, pull out cheese and crackers.
Overwhelmed by the writing of three, 2000 word essays due in a week, the Dutch chocolate with hazelnuts slowly disappears from the cupboard.
When I flew home to take care of Dad, I always made two cottage cheese pies. He enjoyed them, but those pies helped me cope with a cantankerous man who'd started falling and couldn't pick himself up.
Yesterday afternoon, driving home from my last day of teaching a stellar group of seniors, I craved mashed potatoes. Too much work to make from scratch, I popped a bowl of popcorn, melted butter and grated cheese to sprinkle on top.
Sometimes I'm not even aware of an emotional strain when out of the blue I want oatmeal cookies. I stop. Try to reflect. Try to understand. Once I clarify the stress I hadn't consciously acknowledged, I can set aside the oatmeal box and wait for dinner. If not, the slow practice of measuring, melting, and mixing, puts trouble on the shelf for just a minute. A minute respite might be all that's needed.
Though therapists, self-help gurus, and weight aficionados may suggest alternatives to comfort-eating, it can be an effective and temporary remedy for sadness, for confusion, and distraction from overwhelming burdens. But so is a walk, a phone call to a trusted friend, and especially reaching out and helping others.
Perhaps a combination of comforts is the best remedy for the blues. Baking cookies and sharing with a neighbor, a bike ride to babysit the grandkids, may be two of many seismic shifts out of sadness.
Comments