Crafting an Emotional Remodel

I sometimes spend hours in the kitchen. Even on beautiful, sunny days, the urge to be ricocheting between sink and stove is often more compelling.

It’s not unusual for the kitchen – generally the heartbeat of the home – to be designated a happy-place-zone. But feeling at ease there wasn’t always my natural state. Without sounding too hyperbolic, it’s accurate to say my kitchen of origin was a place where I was routinely…triggered. I know that’s an overused term but how could it not apply? It was in the kitchen where I tended to be glared at, viewed as an intruder, and made to feel decidedly unwelcome.

My weight issues provided evergreen fodder for being at odds with the primal basic instinct for nourishment. As a chubby kid, my parents’ strategy was calorie restriction – all day every day. It was a horrible game plan, both psychologically and biologically, since growing bodies do best when not in a state of deprivation. The fallout that ensued cut deeply, and perpetuated cycles of shame-eating in my room, basement, attic, - wherever I could find relief. Even though I knew I was committing a serious infraction, biology spurred me onward to find covert ways to eat.

There were the semi-annual rounds of mandatory dieting starting at age 9, and though every one of them proved disastrous, my parents kept going back to the well, believing that one day the magic would kick in and at last, there would be a metamorphosis into acceptability and non-embarrassment.

Diets, of course, were logically followed by stretches of revenge eating. The oversized portions of all the foods denied me was how I expressed the sorrow and rage that broiled from within. But how could I express it verbally and properly in a culture where we embrace that which is not only shallow, but almost wholly unattainable? If it is by some miracle attained, rarely is it sustained.

When I realized there was no fast-track to self-worth through trying to change my body, and no lasting satisfaction to be found in binge-eating, I began to exhale, drop the outmoded tactics, and relax into the middle road. What does that look like?

Well, I may not have set out to do it consciously, but I began a kitchen remodeling project; not in the sense of hardware and color scheme overhauls. My quest centered around an emotional makeover. I revived the innate love of cooking that I discovered in second grade during weekly afterschool gatherings with my Brownie troop. I still recall poring over recipes and kitchen tips in the orange, weather-worn Brownie handbook. One pointer I never forgot was the practical suggestion to put everything away (spices, measuring spoons, bags of flour, mixing bowls – whatever) as soon as you use it to eliminate pile-ups overwhelm when creating. I began piecing together all the positive elements of my relationship with food that I could recall, and gave myself permission to be curious again.

This time, the kitchen was all mine: my space, my body, my rules. I was free to create, and nourish myself, and nourish those for whom I care. No food groups were disallowed. Portions weren’t scrutinized, and guess what? I ended up having fun…in a place that had once been a designated war zone.

Now, when the kitchen and all its possibilities call, I respond with tail wagging, like I did this morning. Some of it may seem more chore-centric than creative, but at the core of what makes me tick now is the desire to treat myself well – and for some reason, that’s never dull or feels like drudgery.

A few random but pleasureful tasks checked off the list were:

· Making tomorrow’s coffee ahead of time

· Picking fresh oregano and thyme from the garden to enhance a pot of bone broth

· Making dairy-free strawberry ice cream

· Sautéing a tomato to use as a garnish in a lunch of restaurant leftovers

· Whipping up a batch of gluten-free matzo ball mix to chill for dinner

· Handwashing the pots and pans and loading the rest in the dishwasher

· Giving all the countertops a Mrs. Meyers spritz-down

I did all this by choice and inspiration – not out of desperation or misplaced escape. The emotional remodeling is complete and took root years ago – but I’m never not aware of how grateful I am that my relationship with the kitchen is permanently healed and continues to bloom.