We have no Thanksgiving leftovers this year. The holiday was happily spent gobbling turkey bagel sandwiches in the van between a long, hot run and a sneaky double feature at the local Prescott Valley cinema. What I am left sitting with these days, is some newly vacated space inside my head.
When I was small I wanted to be a baker. I told my mother that I was never having children because I wanted to always be the one to lick the spoon clean after mixing brownie batter. As an adult, I love wandering through grocery stores, I’m addicted to Instagram food porn, I still find baking therapeutic and I love creating recipes or researching restaurant menus.
Here I am, six weeks into our Dirty Good odyssey still enamored with the lifestyle but of course, still me. As I write this brief account of my personal journey I am hoping not to reinforce and accept my identity as an anxious, depressive, disordered eater but to reveal patterns that have been both destructive and beneficial for me in the past.