They tried to destroy me, I survived, let's eat!

They tried to destroy me, I survived, let’s eat.

Life presented me quite the hand when I landed on earth a few decades back, even though the landing took place in a bucolic setting:  a sprawling, sun-drenched house at the edge of a majestic Adirondack lake. The scenery may have been enviable; the cast of characters I’d be starring with, however, was not. Starting with a malevolent cousin (who decades later admitted to being resentful of my birth) and her clandestine visits to my crib so she could glare at me and tell me, with dramatically furrowed brow, I was bad. Clearly, I lost the cousin lottery. And ditto for school bullies, a hyper-critical grandmother, and those who purported to identify as friends.  

The cousin was largely avoidable, but school days were a mix of humiliation and loneliness. I’d earned a reputation as a willing and soft target and climbed aboard the bus every day braced for the worst. To handle it all, I retreated into elective muteness and books, lots of them, reading kiddie fiction at recess when other kids were on the monkey bars. And at home, I sought refuge in food, which set in motion near constant disapproval from my parents. I made my debut as a crash dieter at age 9, followed by a hostile and hateful disconnection from my body.

In hindsight, I don’t believe anyone was trying to deliberately bring about my destruction (except maybe cousin dearest). That’s because, in general terms, people hurt others because they themselves are hurting or feel inadequate. I can’t claim to be a blameless martyr in this department, either, for I did to my younger siblings what was done to me at school. I knew it was wrong and I buried the shame, rationalizing I had a right to let off steam.

It took me years to connect the dots and what a slow process it was. Mainly because I was so preoccupied with dieting and all the failed attempts at becoming the person everyone wanted me to be. A low point came one Saturday night in 11^th grade, an era when party invitations and calls from boys were foreign concepts. I’d spent the day white-knuckling through a 500-calorie a day diet my father insisted I undertake with him. He and I were either dieting or binge-eating together. As the dinner hour approached he glibly shifted into binge-eating mode as he departed with my mother to their favorite steak house. I was left with half a broiled chicken breast and stewed tomatoes. “I can DO this,” I seethed while choking down the flavorless meal, then resolutely heading to our basement treadmill.  After 20 minutes I felt dizzy and managed to climb the stairs to the living room and grab a diet soda in time for the Saturday night ritual of being riveted to the latest episode of Dallas. I hoped the zesty hydration from the Fresca would mitigate the spinning in my head and wondered if I’d make it through the opening credits. As soon as I felt steady, I bolted to the kitchen for another savage round of revenge eating. Since the kitchen was kept bereft of tempting foods, I’m taking an educated guess by saying dinner that night was probably a sleeve of Saltines accompanied by Fleischmann’s margarine.

And on and on…until my first therapy session at age 20. For once, no one coerced me into this one. It was my idea – someone had to start untangling the knots. For years, I sought a viable explanation for all the bad that happened to me. Then I finally realized there isn’t one. What matters to me most is I survived. And I transcended the bitterness. And I stopped the bad behavior and made amends to my siblings.  

Rather than incessantly ask why (as I used to do), I tend to look at the past through the eyes of a mystic sage who declares human existence as a means of learning, often through hard knocks. Seems plausible. I mean, where better to educate oneself about the spectrum of good vs. evil than a place where physical pain and emotional anguish are as readily available as oxygen? I have to admit, metabolizing my past is much easier when I think of it as a leg-up to evolution.

And then…there’s the K-Word for those who believe in it. And if that’s the deal, I’m kind of delighted that I paid so much of my karmic debt off during the first half of life.  In a whimsical twist of irony, long after I’d stopped grasping after the ‘whys,’ a woman who works as a medium offered a singular reason for the hideousness of my formative years:  I was Genghis Kahn in a previous life…was he bad? No, it’s a serious question! Remember, my school days were spent in an emotional fetal position; do you really think I absorbed history lessons?

But you know what embedded seamlessly? The shrapnel from bullies, malevolent relatives, and mean girls posing as friends, and it’s taken me years to throw the car in reverse. There was plenty of inner-critic resistance along the way, but I persevered. And that includes with food. Befriending my relationship with eating in a healthy, non-hostile, non-rule-centric way is one of my greatest triumphs and a continual joy. Through the dark and tumultuous tunnel of judgment, orthodoxy, illegalization, and shame has come equilibrium. It can’t be forced, but a better relationship can be gently coaxed.

I couldn’t have done it without books by women who were wise enough to treat the problem at its tender root, like Overcoming Overeating – my bible for many years. Finally knowing that I’m not criminally insane and I’ve got the same body wisdom I was born with has freed me to alternately enjoy food and decline it when I’m not hungry. What’s wrong with being delighted by food? Nothing. God gave us senses for more than simply survival. With that in mind, I serve myself the edible jewels that were literally locked away from me during childhood. When I want them, I eat them with focused abandon.

I love to cook and bake, as much as I love reveling in the gratitude that my bad childhood didn’t turn me into a nasty, vengeful adult. As my 6^th decade is about to dawn, I’ll pass on this advice born of my hard-won experience: cry when you need to, dry the tears with blankets of warm compassion, and give this wonderful lemon cake a try.

Easy Lemon Cake

Ingredients:

1 15-ounce box of vanilla cake mix (I use the Live G-Free brand)

3 eggs, room temperature if possible

1 can full-fat coconut milk

About ½ cup lemon curd

Zest of 1 lemon, organic if possible because fruit skins and rinds are pesticide sponges

Light olive oil for greasing the pan

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Empty cake mix into a large mixing bowl

Place the following in a blender: eggs, coconut milk, and lemon curd and blitz until smooth

Add liquid and the lemon zest to cake mix and whisk well with a wire whisk. I find that because the liquids are so well blended, using an electric mixer isn’t necessary, but it’s fine if you want to.

Set batter aside and oil the baking pans. I used a glass 8x8 pan which wasn’t big enough (don’t fill it more than halfway) so the excess went in a loaf pan. If you use a Bundt ring or a 13x9 pan all the batter will fit.

Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Shut oven off and leave cake in the oven until it cools, or about 20 minutes. This extra step is crucial with gluten-free baking as the different flours can yield a gummy texture if not properly cooked. This ensures doneness without over-baking.

Serve slightly warm (I LOVE it this way) or let cool. Enjoy!