9. Chapter Nine
Chapter 9
Leslie
T he first guest arrived promptly at 7:00 p.m. And a steady flow continued until eight people gathered in my aunt’s living room. Dot’s Healthy Bodies meeting mostly attracted larger-bodied women, but there were two that most would label as thin.
Before our conversation about the Minnesota study hours earlier, I would surely have harbored a shameful attitude about her group members. Like the soldiers in the study, I was taught to view food as the enemy. Hunger was a base instinct to be suppressed. At least, that’s what Mom raised me to believe, and the world’s experts seemed to agree. Were these women living free lives, or putting their health at risk? Guess I'd soon find out.
Dot clapped her hands. “It’s seven-thirty, so if folks want to grab a plate of whatever and snag a seat, we can get started. Don’t forget your name tag stickers, please.”
Guests helped themselves to cheese cubes, crackers, and fruit, or a glass of wine before settling into the sofas and folding chairs arranged into a circle. I sat outside the group on a bar-height stool against the wall to better observe the room.
“Before we begin, I want to introduce my niece, Leslie Molina Allen, visiting from New York for a few weeks while I recover from surgery. She’s also a journalist who might write about toxic diet culture if she finds there’s a big enough story there.”
Everyone erupted in laughter, but Dot hushed them. “Be kind, folks. She just learned about the Minnesota study an hour ago.”
All kinds of gasps and ahs sounded, which made me feel like an ignorant clod. But that was why I attended. To begin my education about the food industry.
“Alyx? How did your month go? Want to kick us off?” Dot asked.
“Do I ever!” The woman laughed, and her flawless mahogany skin shone bright. Alyx likely came from work, wearing a flouncy cream blouse and black skirt. “It was the oddest sensation in the world to crave something and eat it. Scary really. What would happen if I didn’t debate for hours about should I eat it, shouldn’t I eat it, before eating it, plus more?”
“Preach!” a woman yelled.
“If I wanted something, I ate it. As much as I desired. At first, it was like I’d never seen food before. Like one of those men from the study, I ate myself sick. The difference was I didn’t shame myself. After a couple of weeks, my cravings shifted. Sometimes I’d crave fruit or protein instead of sweets. One day at dinner, I prepared a lovely stir-fry with broccoli, with a little lean beef, and some brown rice. I normally would have eaten the whole thing, but I stopped when I was full and had leftovers for a few days.”
Wow. What a great way to control what you ate. Eat everything until you don’t want it. I made a mental note to dig into the psychology of that.
“Everyone, let’s not forget that the broccoli isn’t the goal. It’s no better than a cookie. Yes, it’s more nutrient-dense. But you are not a better person the day you eat broccoli than the day you eat a bowl of ice cream. Right? There are no good foods and bad foods. Only food,” Dot said to a room full of nodding heads.
I made a second mental note never to say that in front of my dear mother. She’d have a coronary on the spot, and I’d be arrested for attempted murder.
“Intellectually, I get that’s true. But I spent my entire life grading my self-worth based on my food choices. ‘Did I cheat today?’” Another woman, Inez, made air-quotes with her fingers. “It’s hard to deprogram.”
“Don’t I know it!” said a woman with a Nadia nametag. “I’m forever having to remind myself that. It’s almost like I need a new way to think about myself. Besides my weight, I mean.”
Nadia wore a low-cut hot-pink wrap top that knotted under her bust. Her makeup was impeccable, making me wonder if she worked in fashion or beauty.
Nadia continued, “I’m finally happy with who I am in the body I have. But my family isn’t. Thanks to you all, I recognize it’s a ‘them’ problem, not a ‘me’ problem.”
As the meeting wore on, it was impossible not to get distracted by thoughts of my own body image and eating history. Could I model Alyx and eat whatever I wanted? Try living in a larger body, loving myself, and telling the haters to go screw, like Nadia? Dot’s world sounded like a dream. But people like my mother and Kaelen Reed had their thumbs firmly pressed on their side of the scale. Fat was to be feared. It remained the only truth accepted by all in an otherwise polarized country.
Scanning the chatting faces in the room, I saw these women for what they were: a rebel alliance fighting overwhelming odds. There was so much legitimacy underpinning their way of thinking, and I yearned to learn more. This new radical approach to food and self-care made me both excited and entirely uncomfortable.
The last guest said her goodbyes as I gathered the glasses scattered around the living room to stack in the dishwasher. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. and Dot was due at the hospital by 7:30 a.m. the next morning for check-in. We’d barely talked about her procedure since I arrived. I couldn’t tell if she genuinely wasn’t concerned, or if she was so troubled she sought distraction.
“Auntie, I’ll get the rest. Why don’t you settle in? You’ll have a long day tomorrow.”
“No chance.” She scooped the remains of the guacamole into the trash. “I’ll be laid up for weeks. I want to move as much as I can, while I can.”
She buzzed around the living room, humming to herself. Her contentment was so palpable, I wondered if that was what happiness looked like. Lightness in your chest and confidence in your heart. Her question from earlier in the day nagged at me like a lash stuck in my eye. You could feel it but not see it. Crazy how in a few hours’ time I was reevaluating a cultural mindset I’d taken for granted. Dot was right. There was a story here, a big one.
After Dot went to bed, I started down a rabbit hole, researching the Minnesota study. The details were just as gruesome as Dot mentioned. Reading the information left me haunted by the spirits of men who became so obsessed by food it drove them into deep mental distress.
Were they dieters, we’d tell them to suck it up.
What a cruel irony. Telling starving people to do without. Be stronger. Be more disciplined. I then learned that you could be biologically starving and malnourished at any size. Fat people could have anorexia, but there was next to no research on it that I could find. Larger-bodied people with eating disorders were praised for the exact behavior that undermined their health. Hungry? Starve yourself more.
On cue, my stomach growled. Ignoring it, I clicked into my next browser window to launch a new search.
Then sat up straight.
Huh.
Unlike the starving men in the study, I could do something about it. I rounded the kitchen island to stand before the refrigerator.
Shadows draped the room, save for the under-cabinet lights and the warm glow filtering over from a table lamp in the living room. Usually, when I raided Auntie’s kitchen at night, I did so in pitch dark. A stealth operation where I finally gave into the cries from my hungry stomach. Typically, I’d indulge, beat myself up, then not eat for days as penance. That behavior sounded like the men in the study.
But that wasn’t me.
Prove it.
I opened the fridge, coolness prickling my skin to attention. Unlike my fridge at home, Dot’s was packed with food. Baggies of snacks from the meeting. Fruit, veggies, milk, and cheese. Yogurt, prepared macaroni salad, and a red-topped storage container full of her famous curried chicken salad. Cooked farfalle pasta with a tub of basil pesto nearby in its usual spot: opposite the cardboard carton of eggs.
Then I saw it. The takeout bag Risto sent home from Boricua.
Sure, it was late. But every fiber of my being wanted to answer my body’s call.
Eat something.
Why was it so hard for me to open a fucking plastic container of food? Millions of people did it every day. Some, multiple times per day.
Without thinking, I wrestled the white bag from the back of the first shelf and spied the black plastic containers with clear lids within. Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking that Risto had packed each one to bulging. God bless that man. I removed the four boxes, their savory scents inviting me to dig in. Chilled sweetness from the once-crispy fried plantains. Garlic and oregano from the black beans and pork chops. The promise of fluffy rice. I kicked myself for not ordering them myself. I’d wanted to, but my robotic instincts took over. How pathetic that I limited myself to inhaling the delicious vapors as we walked through the kitchen.
If I didn’t have an issue with food, I could just dig in. In my mind, Little Diana berated me for being weak, but I ignored her.
Holding a wide bowl from the cupboard, I layered in rice, beans, and two pork cubes. Risto’s idea to cut pork into bite-sized squares was new. That man was a constant evolution. Then I added three slices of plantain and covered it all in plastic wrap and heated it in the microwave. My skin danced in excitement as the dish rotated, popping and hissing as steam escaped the gap I left in the plastic.
Despite being hungry—and filling my bowl—I hadn’t fully committed to eating. There would be stages. Staring at the food came first, breathing in the luscious aroma of garlic and herbs through the warm plastic. Then I’d peel it back and hover a fork over the mound, my arm stiff from the strain of holding back. If I speared the meat, I had one last chance to resist. Sometimes the mere mechanics of eating were enough to satisfy the urge, without food ever crossing my lips. I’d dump it all in the trash and consider myself lucky for avoiding a catastrophe.
This time was different, though.
I had something to prove. I wasn’t like the emaciated men I’d seen on my computer screen. I intended to eat clear down to the bottom. The wavy blue design of its interior would whisper hello, and hopefully stop there. Sometimes, empty dishes shouted back. They’d castigate me for being weak and launch me into punishment planning. Eating had long since become a battle zone.
The women in the living room hours earlier talked about their liberation from the expectations society stacked on them to look a certain way and be ashamed of who they were. I wanted to stand up and cheer, “You go girl! You do you.”
So why couldn’t I do me?
Why was it so hard to stuff food in my mouth, chew, and swallow?
As the microwave timer counted down, Mom’s voice invaded my thoughts.
People are only fat because they’re lazy.
Don’t be one of them. Don’t give in.
She’d wrinkle her nose in disgust when hearing about what I ate at Dot’s. The car door had barely closed, and her inquisition would start. Not, “Did you have fun?” Her first question was always, “What did you eat?” Followed by, “Did she buy you ice cream from the neighborhood truck? Did you politely decline?”
When she’d pick me up after I’d visited for weeks at a time, Mom would stew in silence looking at a fatter me like I was the hugest possible disappointment. While I hated her lectures, her brooding was worse. As was readjusting to mouse-sized portions, fasts, and juice cleanses after getting free rein in Dot’s kitchen.
The same fat disapproval was echoed by every movie, song, TV show, and social influencer I swiped past in my Instagram feed. A tsunami of opinions that all rushed in one direction. I’d never thought to question whether those opinions were right. Didn’t they have to be? The consensus was clear.
The microwave beeped, and I used a potholder to remove the steaming ceramic dish.
With both hands on the counter, I leaned my nose over the food to start my ritual.
I warred with myself.
Who was right? Dot or the rest of the planet?
Fuck it.
I ripped off the plastic and jabbed my fork in, scooping a mouthful of rice, beans, and pork in my mouth.
Mmm! Oh, my good gracious.
The pork was tender as anything, melting as I chewed. Tastes spread around my tongue, flavors arriving and receding. The tang of the cider vinegar, the savoriness of the meat, the herbaceous lift of the fresh oregano, picked from their garden. Happiness raced through me, knowing Risto’s hands had prepared something that brought me so much joy.
I swallowed, then went for more. Twice, three times, four times, chewing and swallowing each bite. A plantain called me, soft now from the steam rather than golden and crispy as it’d been earlier when glistening from the fryer. I slipped a slice into my mouth, licking my fingers.
Sweetness from the caramelized sugars hit first, then a starchy delight only plantains delivered. But it was so much more. It tasted like home, family, and love. It comforted me like love in a dish.
I paused for a sip of water from the fridge door dispenser, and an unfamiliar sensation of fullness registered. Nearby, the half-empty bowl cried for attention. My stop instinct kicked in, this time well-placed. Better I walked away before I felt so sick my meal ended up down a toilet. That’d disrespect the skillful hands who created it.
I lifted the bowl. But instead of scraping the remainder into the trash and burying it beneath other refuse to hide the evidence, I did something new. I covered it with fresh plastic and slipped it into the fridge. I’d eat it another day. Maybe even tomorrow. There would be no purgatory for this kitchen raid. Further proof I was fine.
Silence descended on the house once more, the sole sound the fridge compressor humming its approval.
This was good.
I’d eaten.
My body’s frenzy quieted, at least for a time. Nagging regret would soon pound on my psyche, begging for entrance. But not if I fell asleep first. Force Little Diana into the oblivion of dreams where she’d lose her way in the mist. I cracked a smile at that thought. A night of peace.
I would deal with the angry voices tomorrow. Perhaps by then I’d decide whether I wanted them to win.