Appetite for food = Appetite for life!

    “Eating” — a great waste of time, in my view, until recently! I was never a foodie; I always ate the bare minimum, on the go, irritated by the fact that we are created with this need that must be satisfied repeatedly. 
    Worse still, people with strong appetites and plump bodies always seemed to me — in my own perception — weak-willed (what a paradox, right?), unable to restrain themselves no matter how much they had indulged just minutes before… 
    Food — this fuel, as necessary as it is difficult to manage in my life as a dreamy artist. Everything felt complicated: buying ingredients, cooking them, sitting at the table for at least half an hour… no wonder I so often ended up at self-service cafeterias or restaurants in the city centre, preferring to spend money rather than time. 
    “A car can’t run without fuel,” people used to tell me… I wasn’t listening. All I know is that over these past thirty years I have lived in emergency mode, at the bare minimum — eating while standing and talking on the phone, eating in the car, driving frantically through the country under constant stress, eating fruit morning, noon, and night because it was easy to throw into a bag, grabbing fast food from drive-throughs before falling asleep exhausted in the car, somewhere on the road between Bucharest and Constanța, or Cluj–Brașov, or even Timișoara–Constanța. 
    Years and years in which no one told me that all of this is being recorded somewhere inside me — and that it would be too late by the time I truly understood the saying about the car and the fuel.        
     And yet, I remember with deep nostalgia and warmth in my soul that in childhood, when worries didn’t exist in my naïve mind, I experienced special flavours and meaningful moments connected to food. My grandmother would pick plums straight from the tree; we wiped them on our dresses, ate them, and she would explain how many vitamins they contained. Then there was the sharp, uplifting smell of fresh dill, just picked from the garden. Scrambled eggs with pieces of warm polenta, eaten straight from my grandmother’s hand; the taste of fresh country milk combined with the same polenta she cooked in a cast-iron pot on the stove; my mother’s dishes and desserts — absolute balm on the tongue — but above all, her beef salad… ohhh… such wonders! I could have eaten it every day and nothing else. Or garden tomatoes sliced and brushed with sunflower oil (because my grandmother couldn’t afford olive oil), eaten with white bread. And the sweet goat’s curd I discovered at my other grandmother’s house, amazed that such a texture and taste even existed. And cold polenta with plum jam. Or the RON2.75 vanilla ice cream, melting and running down to our elbows from its cheap paper wrapper. I also remember a salad in Cádiz, Spain, with potatoes, onions, olives, and a splash of lemon. I ate three portions. Another dish was a soup made of tiny cabbages that I used to savour at Taverna, a small and charming restaurant in Brașov, near the Star department store. I don’t know what they put in it, but I’ve never eaten anything that delicious anywhere else. And stuffed peppers! Stuffed peppers, which are still, in my view, the best food in the world — after beef salad, of course. My mother’s stuffed peppers. 
    Then I don’t know what happened. I simply broke away from these tastes, these flavours, from… myself. For years, I wandered restlessly through the country and the world, driving day and night, through rain and blizzards, talking on the phone about “important” company transactions and paperwork, rushing my child to countless weekly activities, sleeping barely five hours a night — until I reached a point where my body literally refused food. 
    Life took care to show me how food — and the process of preparing and nourishing — must be valued. The greatest lesson of all: being hungry, sitting in front of beautifully cooked dishes, prepared in every possible way from organic ingredients and carefully made at home, yet being unable to swallow even a single bite. What unbearable pain I endured. What incredible hunger and weakness I experienced — all as a result of stress, ignorance, and a brutal, immense lack of self-love. 
    Yes, self-love also means making quality time to nourish yourself… but I didn’t understand that until two months ago. I always prioritised the needs of family, friends, emotionally fulfilling activities (poetry, crafts, theatre), and work that brought in the money needed for a decent life. Who still had time for cooking, eating, and sleeping? 
    Fortunately, Someone up there loves me — and worked through those who love me here on Earth — to help me recover and be able to eat again.        
    More than that, the kitchen is no longer a place of frustration over “wasted time,” and for every bite I am grateful. 
    I promise myself I will grow plump and remain a foodie. 
  To eat = to love myself. 
   To cook = to show those around me that I love them. 
An appetite for food = an appetite for life. 
    And you — how plump are you, and how often do you cook? And most importantly, what do you cook? I’d love an exchange of experiences. 😊 
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      A manca, o mare pierdere de timp, in viziunea mea, pana de curand! Niciodată n-am fost o gurmandă; am mancat mereu minimum necesar, pe fuga, indignata ca suntem creati cu aceasta nevoie ce trebuie satisfacuta periodic. 
       Mai rau, pofticiosii si durdulii au fost mereu, in vizunea mea, oameni slabi (ce paradox, nu ?) de inger, care nu puteau sa se abtina, indiferent cat se giftuisera inainte cu cateva minute… 
     Mancarea, acest combustibil pe cat necesar, pe atat de greu de gestionat in viata mea de artist visator! Ce complicat mi se parea totul: sa cumperi materia prima, sa o gatesti, sa stai la masa cel putin jumatate de ora…nu e de mirare ca de foarte multe ori ajungeam la “impinge tava” sau la un restaurant in centru, preferand sa cheltui bani, dar nu timp!          “Pai tu nu stii ca o mașină nu poate să meargă fără combustibil?” mi se zicea… Nu auzeam… Tot ce mai stiu e ca in acesti 30 de ani am funcționat pe avarie, la minimum, mancand in picioare si vorbind la telefon, mancand in masina, conducand turbata de stress prin tara, mancand fructe dimineata, pranz si seara, ca erau mai usor de aruncat in traista si mancand la fast food drive, inainte sa adorm epuizata, in masina, pe un drum intre Bucuresti si Constanta sau Cluj - Brasov, sau chiar Timisoara – Constanta; ani intregi, ani in care nimeni nu mi-a spus ca acesta lucruri se contabilizeaza undeva in mine si ca va fi prea tarziu cand voi intelege zicala cu masina si combustibilul… 
        Imi amintesc totusi cu multă nostalgie și căldură în suflet ca in copilarie, cand grijile nu existau in mintea mea naiva, am avut parte de savori speciale si de momente deosebite in legatura cu hrana. 
    Bunica mea culegea prunele din copac, le ștergeam apoi de rochii, le mâncam și ea îmi explica ce multe vitamine conțin. Apoi mai era mirosul pătrunzător și înălțător al mărarului proaspăt cules din grădina. Oul scrambled, cu bucăți de mămăligă caldă, mancat direct din mâna bunicii, gustul laptelui de țară combinat cu aceeași mămăligă făcută de ea, in ceaun de tuci, pe plită, mancarurile si dulciurile absolut balsam pe limbă ale mamei, dar mai ales salata ei de boeuf….uhhh…ce minunatie! As fi putut sa mananc zilnic din ea si nimic altceva! Sau rosiile de gradina taiate felioare, unse cu ulei de floarea soarelui (ca nu avea bunica bani de ulei de masline), cu pâine albă. Si urda dulce de capra pe care am descoperit-o la cealalta bunica, uimita ca exista o astfel de textura si gust! Si mamaliga rece cu gem de prune! Sau inghetata de 2.75 lei de vanilie, care se scurgea pana la coate din pachetul de hartie ieftina! Imi mai aduc aminte de o salată din Cadiz, Spania, cu cartofi ceapă și măsline și și un strop de lămâie. Am mancat trei portii! O altă mâncare, o supă de vărzuci mici pe care o savuram la Taverna, un restaurant mic și cochet în Brașov, de lângă magazinul Star. Nu stiu ce puneau in ea, dar asa delicioasa nu am mai mancat nicaieri. Și ardeii umpluți! Ardei umpluți care, sunt înca in viziunea mea cea mai bună mâncare din lume, dupa salata de boeuf, bineinteles! Ardeii umpluți tot ai mamei!        
     Apoi nu știu ce s-a întâmplat. Pur și simplu m-am rupt de aceste gusturi, de aceste savori, de ...mine…Am bantuit ani de zile zapauca prin tara, prin lume, conducand zile si nopti, pe ploaie si viscol, conversand la telefon despre tranzactii si hartoage “importante” pentru firma, alergand cu copilul la sapte mii de cursuri pe saptamana, dormind cate 5 ore pe noapte… 
    Pana am ajuns într-un punct în care corpul meu, efectiv, a refuzat mâncarea. A avut grija Viata sa-mi arate cum trebuie pretuita hrana dar si procesul de preparare si hranire. 
    Cea mai mare lectie: sa imi fie foame, sa am in fata bunatati gatite in fel si chip, din ingrediente bio si atent preparate in casa, dar sa nu pot inghiti nici macar o bucatica! Ce dureri atroce am putut indura! Ce foame incredibila si ce stare de slabiciune am putut experimenta! Toate ca efect al stresului si al unei ignorante imense si al unei neiubiri de sine crunte!
    Da, iubirea de sine inseamna si sa-ti aloci timp de calitate pentru a te hrani… Dar eu nu am inteles asta pana acum doua luni… Am prioritizat mereu nevoile celor din familie, ale prietenilor, activitati care m-au implinit emotional ( poezie, craft, teatru ) si activitati care sa imi aduca banii necesari pentru un trai decent. Cine a mai avut timp de gatit, hranit si somn ? 
    Din fericire Cineva acolo sus ma iubeste si a lucrat prin cei care ma iubesc aici pe Pamant, sa imi revin si sa ma pot hrani din nou. Mai mult, in bucatarie nu mai exista loc de frustrarea “ pierderii de timp” si pentru fiecare imbucatura sunt recunoscatoare. 
    Imi promit sa devin durdulie si sa raman o gurmanda! :) 
    A manca = a ma iubi, 
    A gati = a le arata celor de langa mine ca ii iubesc. 
   Pofta de mancare = Pofta de Viata! 
   Voi, cat de durdulii sunteti si cat de des gatiti? Si mai ales ce, ca as dori un schimb de experienta :)