Why I Bake

This post does not have a recipe.

It does, however, mention chocolate.

Tonight, I had a candy bar. I then spent the next hour in the shower (the rhymed) crying, with my boyfriend consoling me, because I weighed myself after eating the candy bar and I weight 1 pound more than yesterday.

In college, I didn’t even own a scale. I could literally eat a container on ice cream and say to myself, “it’s okay.” I never had to forgive myself, because whatever I did didn’t seem to need to beg for forgiveness.

Cut to about five years later and I still realize that I feel my most confident when I have gone without food.

I will literally praise myself all day if I can wait until past noon to eat.

This Thursday, the cast of Hair is doing the nude scene for the first time. I am having nightmares about it. I was fine at first. In my mind I saw only the lights on the stage and the faceless people in the audience watching. But as the day crept closer, I realized that before those faceless people took their seats, I would have to bare all in front of people I knew. People I trusted.

Some may think that taking it all off in front of friends is the easy part. For me, it is not. See, the people in the audience are just people. People who are experiencing a world. A character. People who will be seeing me in a pregnancy belly costume, covering my most feared and hated body part. My cast, the crew, these people will see me naked as me. It was someone who saw me naked as me who made me feel like I had something to apologize for. Maybe that’s giving them too much power, but hey, they wanted something to control, and they got it. They got to control exactly how much worth I felt I deserved.

This same person once took me to a diner where I ordered pancakes with whipped cream. Right before the order came this person took my hands in what I thought was a romantic gesture and then remarked, “your nails look gross,” or something like that. I excused myself, gobsmacked, and went to the bathroom where I furiously washed my hands while crying.

When I was finally composed enough to exit the bathroom, I returned to the table to see my stack of pancakes in a pool of melted whipped topping. The heat from the pancakes had melted the cream while I was in the bathroom. The person looked at me apologetically from across the table, but it didn’t matter. Now, not only was I the fatty indulging in pancakes, I was doing so with unacceptable hands. (“My nail beds suck.”)

Tonight, after the candy bar fiasco. I was in a shower furiously pulling at my belly because how could a person possibly indulge in a candy bar when they are already hauling around this gigantic muffin top?

I began baking to remind myself of what I could do, and also what I, and other people, are worth. When I bake for someone else I am reminded of the light they bring into my life, and the love I am able to give to them. All of these things I can do with a stomach I don’t like, and thighs that touch, and hair that gets oily, and veins on my thighs, and pale, pale, ghostly skin, and everything I wish I could change about myself. But somehow, once the oven is preheated, it all just fades into the background.

Tomorrow, I am going to bake again. And while it will be in honor of one specific person, it will also be a moment to remind myself that a bar of chocolate is not a reason to hate oneself. That a number on a scale is not worth tears. That if I can coax something beautiful out of my kitchen with love, then I can do other things with love, too; including taking off all of my clothes and standing there in front of people and embracing my fear.

I began baking so that I could continually write little love letters in butter and sugar, reminding myself that the sweetness in life does not come from any mirror reflection. I bake so that I can melt butter, and stand on stools to grab sugar, and measure, and chop, and stir, and give all of myself. I’m going to continue doing it. Even if I still have nights where I cry in the shower. Or days where I want to rip off my own skin so I can fit into a pair of jeans. Or moments when I just want to become invisible. I am going to get up, go to the kitchen, get my mixer, and cream some butter and sugar. And I’m going to do it all with gross nails, on imperfect hands, on an imperfect body, that I am learning to love. 

Til next time,

D