Great expectations and lost appetites

Missing: Appetite

There’s something quite humbling about losing your appetite. First, it makes you acutely aware that you have a body (I’m not sure why this doesn’t occur to me on a regular basis; I guess when we’re removed from what feels like routine or habits, we become more sentient). During these moments, your body is an empty vessel, lacking in desire for the usual fare that you feed it. It defies all logic to reject the idea of food when it’s the very thing that sustains us. 

Put a plate of something savoury in front of me, regardless of how hungry I am, and I’m likely to eat it. Namely: ham sandwiches laced with too much mayonnaise, bowls of soy-soaked rice, thin sheets of pasta bathed in olive oil or really any form of jammy eggs on heavily buttered toast. My primary motivation is joy, not sustenance. That’s the second thing: when my appetite goes missing, I’m either reversing that motivation, or removing the whole thing. 

Appetite, noun: a natural desire to satisfy a bodily need, especially for food

My appetite was led astray approximately one and a half weeks ago. It was released into some unknown wilderness by anxiety, left to roam on its own, detached from the very thing that makes it real. I was making dinner for a friend, which is really tough when you don’t really care whether food exists or not. The result was an uninspired melange of brown rice cooked in stock, roasted cauliflower, a pan of over-oiled, far-too-thinly-sliced courgettes, and the same tahini dressing I’d made for the past two nights. I left dinner on the counter and drove my car to the petrol station, turning the music up and rolling the windows down. Just to feel something. The moon hung heavy in the midnight sky, full and bursting with cool light. I filled up my car, listening to the chug chug chug of the petrol leaving the pump, unaware that this would be the penultimate time I’d drive this sentimental piece of metal. 

I returned to find my friend wolfing down dinner, her husband dutifully caring for their almost one-year-old son, giving her a few moments of peace while she ate. I spooned the smallest amount of rice, two pieces of cauliflower and a meagre dribble of dressing onto my plate, ignoring the seasoning (a sure-fire way to tell something is wrong) and we both made our way to the annex. We sat on the sofa and I cried, picking at my food. I finished what was in my bowl, although I couldn’t tell you how it tasted or whether I enjoyed it (I suspect not). 

“I suppose to savour is to hold something in your mouth for more than a moment, to linger and draw out its details. Sometimes you are far too hungry to wait, and things get lost. Perhaps it is not a coincidence that I write things into remembrance. I like to linger long enough to name pleasurable things and seek out more.” – Happy Hour, Marlowe Granados

When we’re hungry, we are passionate. We desire. We devour. We reach for things. We’re active in our pursuit. When we lose our appetites, we become passive. Floppy. Disinterested and distracted. We don’t just lose our appetites, we lose joy. For some reason, this word keeps popping into my head. The search for joy is usually my primary concern, especially when it comes to food. It’s one of the few favourite things about myself. The way I can extract total, unadulterated bliss from one bite. How I can wax lyrical about the tenderness of a chicken thigh or the familiar bitterness of a magenta-speckled leaf. For a few days, I lost that joy. It returned, but not with the full force I expected. It was slow. Like turning a bottle of honey upside down and waiting for it to fall, catching on the sticky edges. 

Great Expectations 

Later that week, I spent a few days in Lisbon. It’s a city famed for its food, namely the Anthony Bourdain recommended seafood joint, Ramiro, which is blessed with queues from 12pm to closing. I arrive eagerly one rainy Tuesday lunchtime at 11.45am, armed with the knowledge of four previous patrons, who have strongly encouraged me to order the prawns, the clams and perhaps a prego if I’m feeling hungry. 

I’m alone, except for Franny & Zooey, and I order a small Sagres and indulge in four oysters, three grilled tiger prawns and a bowl of clams soaked up with buttery bread. I can’t deny that it tasted very good. But did I enjoy it? The expectations were high. I honestly don’t mind eating alone, but there’s something that hits different when you’re at a restaurant, being observed and watched by waiters (or fellow customers), compared to the pure happiness I get from cooking a meal at home and voraciously eating it straight from the pan. 

Later that afternoon, sat in a glasshouse in the middle of a garden near my Airbnb, sheltering from what felt like never ending rain, I ordered a distinctly average club sandwich. Did I enjoy it, I asked myself again. I suppose so. It wasn’t amazing. But I so wanted the experience to match up my expectations of what it meant to be alone in a European city. The romance of it all that gets built up in your head. The swirling intimacy of spending slow, considered moments with yourself. I’m no stranger to spending time alone. I crave it, and I’m good at it. But when you’re in a new place, newly recovered from a lost appetite, perhaps still in the throes of anxiety, unable to cook or clutch at any sense of familiarity, those great expectations feel like an albatross around your neck. 

I arrived at Lisbon airport two hours before my flight. I’d spent the morning roaming the botanical gardens, listening to Donda on repeat, reflecting on my last week, thinking about what I’d cook as soon as I got home (chicken and rice, no surprises there). I was hungry as soon as I left for the airport, but knew that I’d be satiated by an overpriced sandwich at Departures. I spent fifteen minutes bouncing from cafe to cafe, wondering what I was hungry for. I tried to avoid the bright gaze and glare of the McDonalds, mainly because I have a hang-up about eating fast food alone from my disordered eating days. I stepped up to the screen and ordered a rustic chicken burger, medium fries and a Coke. I found a spot and indulged. 

My own biases and snobbery make me feel ashamed to say that was the culinary highlight of my trip. But it was (see above on waxing lyrical about tender chicken thighs). But it wasn’t just the taste. It was that I had no expectation of how great it would be. Compounded with that was my excitement at returning home. These were the ingredients to a joyful meal. I sat there stuffing my face, slipping hot salty fries into my burger, relishing the crisp batter and the cheap melted cheese.

My new pre-birthday resolution is to find joy in everything and to let go of expectations. To stop expecting the worst. Or the best. Not to be cynical or nihilistic, but to extract joy from the simplest of situations. Or the humblest of meals. Whether it’s something I’ve cooked or a goddamn McDonald’s chicken burger at the airport.

Stealing my own copy for this morning’s Desmond & Dempsey newsletter because I’m lazy and there are spring vibes in the air.

Is there anything more conducive to a slow Sunday morning than OJ-hued yolks and the smell of butter sizzling in a pan? To go with the heady hit of coffee from whichever vessel you may choose: a bubbling percolator on the stove, the steam coming from a freshly pressed cafetière or if you’re feeling fancy, a bulbous Chemex pour over filtering through chalky white paper.

Imagine the scene: papers strewn across the duvet. The curtains rippling with the morning breeze. A holiday state of mind. Some sort of sunshine soundtrack playing on the speaker. Someone’s popped the frittata in the oven: frothy eggs, vibrant greens, fluffy potatoes and creamy feta crumbled on top. You’re still in bed, of course. No need to lift a finger. Lucky thing. A quick flip of the pan and a few minutes to cool it down before plating up an extra big slice with a side of salad leaves glistening with mustard and honey and peppery olive oil. A flurry of salt. A twist of pepper. A sip of coffee. Orange juice on the go. By this point it might be more of a brunch/lunch in bed, but if Sundays aren’t for lazing in bed for longer than expected, then what are they for?! 

WHO 

2 hungry people with a slice for leftovers the next day 

WHAT 

6 eggs, whisked and seasoned with salt and pepper

3-4 boiled new potatoes sliced into rounds

Either steamed tenderstem broccoli (about 5 stems) or 3-4 asparagus, chopped into large pieces 

A handful of spinach or kale

1 shallot, finely sliced

½ pack of feta, crumbled 

Lots of butter  

HOW 

Preheat the oven to 180º. In a non-stick pan (or cast iron) melt a large knob of butter with a little drizzle of olive oil to stop it burning. Keep it on a low-medium heat.

Add the shallots and sweat for a few minutes. Then goes the leafy greens (your spinach or kale), which you can cook until wilted.

Spread the shallot/greens out then place the potato rounds and pour in the eggs.Turn the heat up a little and place your broccoli or asparagus on top in the eggy mixture. 

Once the bottom starts to set and it’s more wobbly than runny, crumble the feta on top and stick it in the oven for 10-15 minutes – until it’s all cooked through. 

Let it rest for a few minutes after you take it out of the oven and flip it onto a large plate or chopping board. Serve up with some dressed salad leaves and enjoy!

In case you were wondering: I’m going to return to the weekly newsletter. So every Sunday you’ll get some food for thought and a recipe-not-recipe. Then, bonus: every Wednesday, I’ll send a mid-week dispatch of Leftovers – all the recommendations of what to read, listen to, watch and cook.