The Fried and the Feminine

God I love food. Tonight I was continuing my general theme of grumpy and tired until I got around to making dinner. The dish du jour was neua pat bai grapao (Stir-fried minced beef with chillies and holy basil - but substitute normal basil because I was too lazy to go to two different grocery stores). It helps that the process began with beating the crap out of something. I pounded red chillies and garlic in my larger mortar and pestle (Sh. carried said mortar from Chatswood as a birthday present - that's real dedication) until it was an aromatic mush and then stir-fried it. Note to self: do not stare at the pan when you add crushed chillies to very hot oil.  Then in went minced beef, stock, light and dark soy sauce  and sugar. It was topped off with stacks of fresh basil, a bowl of fish-sauce mixed with lime juice and a fried egg on top. Interestingly, there were three chillies in the dish but it had no more than a slight glow of heat. Great fresh flavours and a nice mix of textures. 

The love of food brings me to the next topic I've been thinking about recently: how difficult it is to have a healthy relationship with food as a woman. It might well be the same for men but as I haven't experienced it, I won't presume to understand. This is by no means a new topic, but it isn't going away. I was a fat teenager.  These days I maintain a position on the scale from curvy to squishy depending on a variety of factors. Sometimes I think that I could venture to the lower side of curvy, but the last time I was in that territory I knew the calorie count of everything I put in my mouth and drank tea with artificial sweetener: life is far too short.

 I would say I'm pretty healthy these days and yet there are certain situations that trigger the bad old ways of thinking. For instance: eating chocolate or ice-cream or hot chips in public. This is a big no no if you're a big girl - there are plenty of witnesses who are happy to pass scathing judgments on your lack of discipline etc. and I still feel uncomfortable doing it. Communal lunches - exactly how many little sandwiches constitute an acceptable quantity to eat? What happens if you suddenly realise you've eaten faster than everyone else? Will people be thinking you're greedy? I've left behind the days of low fat cookbooks and totally skimmed milk but it's amazing how many reptiles still lurk in the shadier parts of my mind. Yet, women are intimately connected with the preparation of food; our bodies are frequently conceived and idealised in terms that could equally describe food and I never feel more feminine than when I'm making pastry (cue a Smithers "You should probably ignore that" moment). It sometimes seems to be a constant arm-wrestle to maintain an even, sensible attitude to butter and cream and all good things. Right now I'm erring on the side unashamed, public proclamations of my love of food and eating but the current towards a closed mouth and calculations of fat content is always tugging and testing and nibbling away at the solid ground.