Thought for food.

A simple challenge. Really. An act of human interaction. A kindness on a plate. Uncomplicated love, emphasised through action.

I love cooking. Being in the kitchen, creating. Throwing ingredients together like the words of a free form poem. Sprinkling my heart in a handful of salt. The kitchen is a safe space. A place of peace. Freedom.

Food is not.

Food is a manacle. I won’t go into how it started or how it has ended too many times. And how I know that it will be the death of me.

Food for so long has been a mechanism. A ‘must do’ on the ever growing list of 'must dos'. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I refuse to remember. But mostly I force myself to do the unnatural, natural thing. A survival of sorts. If I choose to survive. Mostly I do.

My life is split between two eras. Before and after. After began at 12.

The only memory of food as comfort I can touch is the simple beauty of ‘Egg and Soldiers’. Ok, it’s no haute cuisine. The French would be mortified, I’m sure. But let me explain a little. As with many of our preferences and loves they are not such because of their base form but a culmination of the memories and emotions attached to them. Music, movies, art. Books. All resonate in large part because of who we are. Not because of what they are. Brilliant as they might be.

And so for me, ‘Egg and soldiers’ has become a lament for a past I can never regain. No matter how I might will for it. A moment of a me I wish I were still, perhaps. A time when the worst was so much less. Before I was lesser, I suppose.

A shy ten. Bullied at school. Not incessantly or badly but enough to damage an already sensitive heart with too much of plenty swilling in the background. Enough to isolate her and tip the balance from self-questioning into self-loathing. But also enough to force her into books. And so she read. Read and read. Anything to be. Anything to exist. Anything but here in this real world of taunts and anger and cruelty. And pain. Other worlds, other voices. Oh to be other. She found comfort.

That particular day it was ‘The Secret Garden’, She couldn’t stop. She read all night until her eyes slept upright –desperately clinging to the story of the boy in the attic. And the girl who cared. Beat for beat the words matched her pulse. In the morning, blurry eyed and desperate to know - she pleaded with her aunt. 'Please. Please don’t make me go. Let me stay. Just for today.' She feigned sickness. But her aunt saw the lie. Relented nonethless. Desperation and desire are powerful tools.

Recognising the turmoil of her own inner child, the aunt offered comfort as the little girl read.

A Recipe to Hold Dear.

1. Gently place the whole egg into a saucepan and add enough cold water to blanket. Bring to the boil, before reducing the heat to medium

2. Simmer lovingly for 3 minutes.

3. Serve in an egg cup with soldiers. (Thick buttered toast cut into strips)

And still, in her after stage the memory of the words mingle with the rich orange yolk; soaked in the churned butter of care and truths that, although distant at times, still remain dear. Close.

May this simple dish warm your heart, and as you dip each soldier into the golden heart, may you be reminded of the inherent goodness you possess And, with every bite, may you feel cherished and loved, if by no one else but yourself.