50 years later and abusive language and personal put-downs are the stuff of #1 reality shows on TV.
Yesterday, over tea, my friend reported joyous progress in laying the wood floor at his house. “What’s taken you so long, do you think?” I asked. ”My dad never quite approved of my skills as a carpenter: he always found flaws in whatever I put my hands to.” My friend’s father died not long ago.
Instantly, a big light went on and I thought of the dysfunctional ways I feed myself. Yes, there’s direct connection–allow me to explain. Typically, I buy food (organic and the best), but rarely cook for myself and inevitably throw away what’s turned to mush in the fridge. Cooking for others is a different matter: there I take great care.
Having long ago completed a three-year chef’s apprenticeship and worked for several years in service and management afterwards, I do know how to cook and set a good table. But when it comes to feeding myself … there’s some weird disconnect.
Over years of training, food became synonymous with abuse. In the European master-knows-all tradition, the six of us (boys between the ages of 14 and 17) were physically hit and kicked with daily regularity. Never sure of the infractions–usually about being “stupid” and “useless”–we lived in constant fear of the next cruelty. It was all “normal” back then and it never occurred to anyone that such treatment might be unjust or illegal. After all, the abusers were our seniors; we looked to them for attention and guidance.
Seems to me that this aversion to cook for myself has its roots deep in my formative years. If it’s true that the way to the heart is through the stomach, then self-loathing and neglect must travel along similar routes. Yikes!
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