Gastronomic Purgatory

Lindsay Faller - 9 Sep 14

We have just celebrated our daughter’s first birthday. And, as often happens at times like this, memories of my pregnancy and her birth push themselves (no pun intended) to the forefront of my mind. But fear not, I have no desire to bombard you with saccharine tales of how thrilling it was to have motherhood on the horizon. The truth is that the first three months of pregnancy sucked and the daunting task of becoming a parent was met with extreme emotions that ranged from trepidation to tentative excitement, but mostly total and utter terror.

What I think of most when I consider the whole experience is food, and not in the way one would expect. If you’re one of the rare lucky ones not to fully experience the weirdness that occurs when hormones take over your body during this time, you may have no idea what I’m talking about, but suffice to say the terror I felt towards parenthood was matched with a nervous preoccupation with my next meal. I am a cook and a food writer; food defines me in more ways than one and it was ironic that suddenly my relationship with it during early pregnancy shifted into something of a weird foodie limbo. I spent almost three months in a state of complete gastronomic disarray. My appetite ranged from non-existent to insatiable, and I spent a fair portion of time afraid of food, a quality in others that normally irritates the hell out of me. Suddenly, I went into panic mode when it came to eating and lived completely at the whim of nausea and odd unseasonal cravings.

First, I became obsessed with tomatoes. So much so that I had to shove aside my guilt at purchasing imported out-of-season tomatoes and avocados so I could sate an irrational desire for bruschetta and Caprese salads in November. I drank hot chocolate compulsively. For a week all I could eat were buttered rolls with ham (honey-roasted only). Then I became preoccupied with textures of food. During a particular week I must have eaten Mexican food three or four times: crunchy corn tacos or soft flour burritos, with warm ground beef, cool crème fraîche and creamy guacamole. I gleefully discovered that if you opt for the vegetarian burrito at Chipotle, you got the guacamole for free – an added bonus, especially because the pork carnitas gave me the fear.

I developed an irrational hatred of the soy-sauce-MSG-cabbage odour of Asian noodle bars; the smell of which still makes me feel queasy to this day. I spent a particular lunchtime wandering aimlessly around Soho desperate to find a sausage roll, but only after eating two slices of pizza from Maletti. I found said sausage roll at Tesco, and it took all my willpower to avoid the heavily salted treat, talking myself down like some sort of police negotiator. Most other lunchtimes I would worry about finding something I could eat that wouldn’t make me feel sick. I couldn’t bear the taste or smell of chicken, even the organic, free-range plump beauty I bought from my local farmers’ market.

This was not okay. I had lost control of one of the things central to my being. A melodramatic response you might say, but when I had chosen to spend my life dedicated to the pleasures of the table, I was utterly lost. Not only was I was eating things I would normally avoid like the plague, I was unable to enjoy the food I could actually eat. An undercurrent of dread and aversion infiltrated every meal, and I began to wonder if, at the crucial time I had made a career change into food writing, my hormones had now thwarted me permanently.

And then, in a matter of days, it vanished. Like…that. I was myself again, but with an ever-expanding belly and a hunger that was impatient and punishing. How strange it was to be tossed between these two gastronomic realities so indiscriminately. The good news was, of course, that I was able to eat more freely again; notable cravings such as chocolate milk and Melton Mowbray pork pies featured regularly. As time went on and my collection of cooking and cookery reference books continued to send me come hither looks, cooking no longer seemed a needless exercise, and eating once again became a pleasurable experience. At once, eating my way through the rest of the pregnancy no longer seemed worrying. All that said, I shamefully must admit even a year on I still have to pretend those glorious Tesco sausage rolls no longer call to me.

Lindsay Faller

Lindsay Faller is a food writer and mother to Ivy, 1. She writes for her blog, Blonde vs Bland, and for a variety of other publications. An American expat, Lindsay has lived, shopped and cooked in Brixton, SW London and the surrounding area for over ten years. You can follow her on Twitter @blondevsbland.

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