My desire to live without violence aligned nicely with my desire to be thin—at least on the outside.
I’m giving myself a pass to eat what I want—my husband has cancer, after all. I find that it helps to keep a taste in my mouth.
Starvation became a stand-in for the pain of loneliness; a way to account for it, and also to punish myself for being unlovable.
A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite—for food, for sex, for simple attention—is always voracious: she always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist.
When New York’s Per Se was devastated by a recent Times review, why weren’t restaurateur Thomas Keller’s peers anywhere to be seen?
Contempt for reality television is less a specific response than a herd sentiment. And yet, after so many hours under its spell, I feel like I’ve turned a corner: Gordon Ramsay is a genius.
Butter tarts are strangely modest in their excess, a two-dollar decadence. But like that Canadian myth of innocent blandness, a butter tart’s surface hides something much more complex.
Now that I was once again omnivorous, I wanted to watch a deer get turned into meat.
When you grow up eating alone, sometimes a terrible dinner is all you can ask for.
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