The Icing on the Cake

One night, after a dinner that left me almost stuffed, after a quarter of a mango, a frozen banana, and a few grapes, I casually went to the kitchen for one pretzel rod. It was crunchy and salty and had that perfect burnt-ish smooth pretzel skin under the salt. I ate it and continued reading my email.

 

Then I went back to the kitchen and got another pretzel. It was just as good as the first. I ate it slowly, biting a piece off gently and chewing it carefully, softening the inside with saliva, then crunching the outside. I went back for another one. By this time there was not even the slightest thought of hunger, but still I was pulled back to the bucket to take another. Finally I just stood at the counter in the kitchen and ate two more, not even bothering to pretend I was going anywhere.

 

There’s a saying in Alcoholics Anonymous, “One drink is too much, and a thousand is not enough.” After five pretzel rods, on top of everything I had eaten earlier, I could feel chewed-up starch piled right up to my breastbone. My esophagus was literally full. If I had eaten another pretzel, it would not have had anywhere to go; it would have just sat in my throat. But I still would have eaten another. And another, and another – if something hadn’t called me to my senses and sent me off to bed.

 

The next morning I still felt that stuffedness, all the way up my chest to the back of my throat. I felt a distaste for pretzels, yet I knew that later, if I allowed myself to have one, I would do the exact same thing and maybe not stop at five.

 

When I was around 14, every day after school I would bike half a mile down the hill to the Grand Union and buy a can of vanilla frosting. As I pedaled hard up the hill on the way home, I would imagine I was actually burning off the calories of what I was about to do, earning the right to eat that can of frosting. Which I would do, either in front of the TV or reading a book, completely encasing myself in numb pleasure, my brain sated with entertainment and my mouth sated with creamy sweetness. I was alone in a delicious cocoon…

 

…until I started feeling sick, which was usually when there were only a few spoonfuls left in the can. At that point I would throw the can away, vowing never to buy another one. And then I’d eat a pickle or something “real” to counteract the greasy sweetness of what was in my stomach (which was essentially sweetened Crisco). The next morning, however, I would pick the can out of the trash and finish it. For the rest of the day I’d want more and couldn’t wait until I could bike back down the hill for more frosting.

 

With certain foods, and to some extent with all food, for me “enough” has no inherent meaning. For years I’ve struggled to give it a meaning, but then there are nights like the one with the pretzels when all meaning is gone. The only enough I know then is that there are not enough pretzels in the world.

 

For me, that is a figurative dearth, but for so many people there is literally not enough food to keep them alive and healthy. People are starving, and I have so much food I have to practically tie myself down to keep myself from eating too much of it. A thousand calories is the bare minimum for a woman to survive on per day, but that 2000-calorie can of frosting was extra for me, on top of all the healthy food I ate. How can it be that people not having enough to eat can exist in the same world where I could buy 2000 calories for a dollar-fifty or whatever it was back then? How is it that the thought of these people is not enough to keep me from going back for one more pretzel?