chapter 2 - her voice

Chapter Two - Her Voice

Getting ready for the flight in the morning when I was returning from Europe, I realized that I had done some serious damage to the body that I had spent my whole life training to be a dancer; that is until I had left New York in June for a three month field trip to get a first-hand understanding of my new passion. I was worried about the kind of reaction that I was going to get from Eric. As my boyfriend of three years, Eric had always known me to a fanatic about my weight and body. He was aware that I had transitioned from perceiving myself as a dancer with professional aspirations to just being a dancer for fun, but I had never let that difference affect how I maintained my body.

While I had always loved being a dancer, the fact was clear by the time that I was graduating from Barnard that I was never going to make it with a serious dance corp. Sure, it was fun performing with amateur groups and I had always enjoyed the rigors of being a dancer, but people who haven’t danced ballet seriously have no idea of how demanding it is physically. But I had loved it. Still, it was clear in college that I would have to find something else that I could pour myself into. I am kind of an obsessive person but in a good way. At least I hope so.

During my senior year in college, although I was graduating with a major in environmental science, I knew that I wanted to do something more creative. I had always liked to cook, which of course was weird since I was always totally disciplined in what I would let myself eat, but had never really learned how. I could make the occasional special dinner for my boyfriend over a long weekend at home, but trying to do anything in the kitchen where I lived at school was simply not realistic. I had enjoyed helping in the kitchen growing up and both my parents were good cooks, but it was becoming friends with a couple who were opening a restaurant that got me hooked on the idea of becoming a chef.

I was aware that wanting to be a creative chef seemed at odds with aspiring to have a body fat ratio of less than 15% and only tolerating 20%, but I was convinced that I would be able to separate the idea of eating from the idea of cooking. I had noticed that many chefs seemed to wear their work, but I also knew some very thin chefs. There was a sensuous component to creating food that seemed to almost be similar to the sensuous component of dance. Both seemed to benefit from the illusion that the result was effortless, with the real art being concealing the complexity. Ballet dancers who looked like they were straining were about as attractive to watch as a chef who seemed overwhelmed with cooking.

After graduating, I enrolled in the Culinary Institute of America and quickly discovered that my favorite was baking complicated desserts; pastries in particular. I was awarded a traveling fellowship from the Institute and was able to talk my parents into a gift to help me pay for a summer trip to Europe. Like dance, the only way to learn how to cook is to do it, and the only way to get better at it is to see how the masters do it. My summer was a foray into the world of the great pastry chefs. I figured that, by watching talented chefs work and seeing what they create, I would be able to elevate my own skills.

I know this sounds dumb, but I actually thought that my experience would be observation and evaluation based on what I heard and what I saw. The first chef I visited in Paris explained that there is just no way to learn about subtle taste other than by eating. I knew it would be a tough job, but somebody had to do it. Okay, maybe not so tough. And certainly delicious. But I think of myself as a disciplined person and I was confident that I would be able to control this and keep it scientific. A bite here and a sample there would suffice.

During my travels, I kept a careful record of everything that I got to taste. I wrote down every meal and tried to figure out the seasonings, flavorings, and details about how each dish was created. With the fact that I was a student at the CIA, I was able to get friendly with many of the chefs and a few invited me into their kitchens to watch them up close.

My enthusiasm for learning encouraged them to show off and I figured that I learned what would normally take years in just the three months of the summer. Each night, I wrote down what I had learned and the intricacies or special tricks that I had been shown. Watching something being made by a master chef and then being able to taste the food gave me a great understanding of the sensuousness of the art. Again like dance, good cooking has to operate on several levels simultaneously, and I discovered that it was the sensuous qualities of texture and taste that had the most to do with making something special.

Don’t get me wrong. I took this experience totally seriously and I really did learn a lot, but it was as visceral as it was intellectual. Within the first week, I figured out that tasting a small piece of something was seldom sufficient to really understand it. Before I knew it, I was no longer tasting. I was eating; a lot.

As the days turned into weeks and the first month became the second month turned into the third month, the “record” of what I had tasted documented itself in another way. Slowly at first, and then at an accelerating rate, as I became more “experienced”, my body kept a careful accounting of every calorie consumed. By the end of the first month, I figure I had gained maybe 10 pounds. Since I was in great shape when I started, the extra 10 pounds had little consequence. Maybe a bit more here and a bit more there, but not really noticeable. But I found my capacity increasing as each week passed. In the beginning, the richness of the desserts made it difficult for me to finish a full serving of something. After a week or so, that was no longer a problem.

During the second month, my rate of gain increased, as it was not only easy for me to finish any serving put in front of me, but I was also able to try a second serving of something slightly different so that I could compare. By the end of the second month, I had probably added another 10 pounds, which were harder to conceal and started to change my shape.

The third month had me conditioned to handle multiple servings and still be willing to try something else. I found myself not really feeling full unless I had consumed an obscene quantity, although my focus always remained on the quality of what I was eating. These were not fast food pounds finding their way to my belly. I was enjoying some of the best food in Europe and starting to realize that my time there was winding down.

Soon the thought that my escapade would be coming to an end gave me an enthusiasm for trying one more sampling of this followed by maybe a serving of that, only to pave the way for the next dish. I was running out of time and I still had a lot that I wanted to experience while I still could. While I was also seeing the sites and the cities, everything was structured around the bakeries, restaurants, and bistros that I just had to visit.

In the last week, the list of places that I had to try required me to ignore the structure of three meals a day, which I had already been punctuating with samplings of mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and late evening snacks. In the last week, I found myself having to arrange for six meals a day just to get close to completing the list that I had brought, which was a compilation of the recommendations from my teachers at the CIA. I would have an early breakfast and then a late breakfast, followed by an early lunch and a late lunch, followed by an early dinner and then a late dinner. I amazed even myself by still being able to hit a couple of patisseries that were rumored to have the best cream puff or maybe an unusual bichon au citron.

I had no accurate way to really gauge how fat I was getting, since I had no interest in finding a scale. My only indication was how my clothes were fitting, or I guess no longer fitting. That should have been enough, but I was in denial. Whatever I gained in the first two months I outdid in the third month. My boyfriend Eric was always hinting that I could gain a few pounds, although my guess that he was hoping that more of the weight would go into my breasts than my belly. My ass and legs were bigger. Everything was bigger. Maybe it was my imagination, but even my feet seemed fatter. What surprised me was that this didn’t freak me out. I was actually enjoying the feel of the extra weight and had discovered that playing with my belly could be part of pleasuring myself.