Jiro Dreams of Sushi
I know I'm unwell when I watch Jiro Dreams of Sushi, and my stomach does not register hunger.
Chewing is like wading through cement. The brownie I made when happier, which contains 85% cocoa solids, is dusty and cloying. Food has supplanted and been conflated with happiness in my brain – let me cook for you, let me eat with you, the unctuous delights of perfect cheese, the light decadence of uni and butter angel hair pasta, the warmth and depth in a bowl of pho.
All of these things I made for myself today, to try and break through the fog. But the cheese was just so much sensation, the uni an expensive failure, the pho just hot wet nothing.
I look at these empty bowls on the lanolin countertop. The light dancing across the fat on my pho, the golden sensuality of the uni/butter compound, the yellow-white firmness of the globules of cheese where light and my knife have touched it. And my stomach rumbles in protest, and my brain just goes “Ssh”.
Jamie Oliver you've failed me, Heston Blumental how could you, Anthony Bourdain why. I even retreat to Alice Waters, but Californian salad is difficult to make well in Scotland.
And I now clutch onto the idea that if I only had the perfect avocado, I could avoid depression again. Bake an egg into it, sprinkle with sriracha, or maybe thickened soy sauce, or even a rich red wine balsamic. Fatty, but light. Rich, but simple. The smooth green unflecked by black strings unlike the crap Tesco counterparts. The perfect oval shape, heavy at the base like a fertility idol. But I know this is a lie I'll tell myself. A light at the end of the tunnel.
I can't wait to be hungry again.