I don’t recall my mother running through the front door to cook copious amounts of chicken and start inhaling them. I never saw Dad stare into the pantry, step in and close the door to eat his Kettle Chips in private either.
Where did I get my ability to eat my emotions from?
I started noticing my grab at food when I left Dawn and the mini men in 2005. I had moved to Melbourne, was training for a triathlon and the stress took my weight down to a shocking 64 kilos. For my six-foot frame, it was too low.
I would visit Anthony in Sydney on some weekends and when I got back home, I’d eat chicken. In any form — chicken sandwiches, chicken sushi, chicken everything! It was comforting to eat it. It was then and it still is.
I used to be oblivious to my anxiety and stress-related habits. These days I can hear them clucking a mile away.
If I was left with a choice for my last meal on earth, it would be chicken with a side of chicken and an entrée of salt and vinegar chips.
I’m easily pleased, no foie gras for me. Anyone who knows me can raise a smile so easily with a purple bag of chips and the promise of chicken.
I seemed to have passed on the genetic code for emotional eating. I found Beau head first in the bowl of dessert the other day, I’m sure partly to get a rise out of me. Instead he got a hearty laugh, partly because children follow their parents in all forms.
Chickles has the savoury tooth. We were on the couch watching Tangled the other night and all I could see of him was a pair of bony legs sticking out from under a large purple bag of chips.
Beau and I watched the last parts of the movie together, both tearing up at the end. We looked at each other when the movie finished and we laughed at each other’s wet eyes.
I looked at the clock — too late to start whipping up a chook, I guess.
