JUST A LITTLE SAMPLE . . .
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“I love you,” Rett whispers, and my chest fills with something damp and
overflowing as he mumbles himself back to sleep. The heaviness of lie moves
up my throat and into my face, because if I was fat and ugly Rett wouldn’t be
here. I know this truth, I am this truth, but he doesn’t get it. Or won’t let himself
get it. Or whatever.
overflowing as he mumbles himself back to sleep. The heaviness of lie moves
up my throat and into my face, because if I was fat and ugly Rett wouldn’t be
here. I know this truth, I am this truth, but he doesn’t get it. Or won’t let himself
get it. Or whatever.
| EXCEPRT FROM SOMEWHERE IN THE BEGINNING . . .
(This bit has since been revised, but whatever. Read it anyway.) |
I won’t—will not!—vomit. I’ve made this place—my body, my bed—a no puking zone. Regurgitation is
off limits. I don’t do that sort of thing, it’s a vile and despicable habit. But usually, after an evening of
work, I’m overwhelmed with sick. I feel nauseous and bulky, coated and lumpy-fat like a pool of sherry
cream sauce that will most definitely get a poor review. I hate my job. Sure, it could be fun. Whatever.
And I’m good at camouflaging myself, hiding behind various costumes and clothing. I enjoy at least
that much, choosing to be blonde or Irish or elderly or Jewish (Kosher only, please! That really frigs
‘em up.) But that’s as far as it goes, that’s it, that’s all I can enjoy.
God, I love food. If I never had to eat again within the entirety of the remainder of my life, that’d be
perfectly fine with me. Quite enjoyable, actually. I can barely imagine such freedom. It’s impossible.
Food is bad. Asian noodles are bad. Beef tartare and bacon fat and bagels; cream, double-cream
cheese, and Edam cheese. I could recite the entire alphabet of food horrors.
I’m supposed to be on vacation, but whatever. Pure, luxurious, true vacations don’t exist for us
menial folks, they're resevered for the bastards who are rich and leisurely and can afford to skip
reality for a summer. I, unfortunately, am not one of those. I have aspirations and goals to become
one of those, but they haven’t met their reality yet. So for now, I work.
Robert called me yesterday.
“Hey, chickadee, got a new restaurant for you. Tomorrow night, Olivia deVerone will disappear again.
Lily Rosenberg and guest have reservations at eight. Ha! How do you like that one? Lily Rosenberg.
Get it? Liam came up with that one. A floral bouquet. Anyway, the place is new, somewhere in
Portland, called Enigma. It’s only an hour or so from where you’re staying. The review will be perfect
for our leaf-peeping issue in October.”
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Another forced eating session. I have to cover up, think of
something wise and eccentric to say, Robert can’t know what I’m really thinking.
“The restaurant is called Enigma?” I scoff, sounding like a true foodie snob. Ha! That’ll fool him. “Who
came up with that name? It sucks. Like, What’s on my plate? It’s an Enigma! Sounds like a winner,
Editor Whipple, sir.”
Robert snorted—that half-laugh, half-deviated septum noise he makes when he feels entertained or
something.
“Chickadee, you are a gas.”
Gas? No one actually uses that word any more, unless they have it. And what’s up with this chickadee
thing? That’s new. Does Robert think he’s being cute and hip and young again, or is he trying to make
a joke? After all, I'm at my mom’s summer cottage in Maine, and the chickadee is the Maine state bird.
On second thought, he’s not that intelligent. Liam might come up with something that cheesy, but
Liam is only editorial assistant—and Robert’s nephew, which explains how a dude who hates to read
got a job at bon Amuse magazine—so I rarely get direct assignments from him. He only talks to me
when he wants to grab my flat ass (that’s flat, not fat) or when he wants me to do a favor for him, like
bend over the copy machine or something. Okay, so he’s never actually gone that far, but still. I have
the distinct impression that it’s a distinct possibility.
So, I eat for a living--and drink bottles of wine more expensive than my out-on-the-town Louis Vuitton
handbag--then write about it for ELLEMENTS magazine. How utterly and absolutely fucked up is that?
But I’m good at pretending. I’m expert. It’s my life, how I subsist and maintain and balance my
imbalance.
The Anorexic Food Writer Becomes a Floral Bouquet
I pretend to eat, I pretend to enjoy; pretend not to gaze at my abdomen to be sure it suddenly hasn't
expanded a size or two, pretend not to want another glass of Shiraz when really, that '01 Henschke
Eden Valley was quite exceptional and hell yeah, I want more (Wine Spectator rated it a 95, but I'd give
it at least 97).
I’ll get fat if I keep this up. I’ll have to stop at some point. But hey, at this exact moment, I need the
money. We all have bills, right?
My chest fills with something thick and overflowing as Rett mumbles in his sleep, wrapping his arms
around my shoulders without realizing what he’s doing.
off limits. I don’t do that sort of thing, it’s a vile and despicable habit. But usually, after an evening of
work, I’m overwhelmed with sick. I feel nauseous and bulky, coated and lumpy-fat like a pool of sherry
cream sauce that will most definitely get a poor review. I hate my job. Sure, it could be fun. Whatever.
And I’m good at camouflaging myself, hiding behind various costumes and clothing. I enjoy at least
that much, choosing to be blonde or Irish or elderly or Jewish (Kosher only, please! That really frigs
‘em up.) But that’s as far as it goes, that’s it, that’s all I can enjoy.
God, I love food. If I never had to eat again within the entirety of the remainder of my life, that’d be
perfectly fine with me. Quite enjoyable, actually. I can barely imagine such freedom. It’s impossible.
Food is bad. Asian noodles are bad. Beef tartare and bacon fat and bagels; cream, double-cream
cheese, and Edam cheese. I could recite the entire alphabet of food horrors.
I’m supposed to be on vacation, but whatever. Pure, luxurious, true vacations don’t exist for us
menial folks, they're resevered for the bastards who are rich and leisurely and can afford to skip
reality for a summer. I, unfortunately, am not one of those. I have aspirations and goals to become
one of those, but they haven’t met their reality yet. So for now, I work.
Robert called me yesterday.
“Hey, chickadee, got a new restaurant for you. Tomorrow night, Olivia deVerone will disappear again.
Lily Rosenberg and guest have reservations at eight. Ha! How do you like that one? Lily Rosenberg.
Get it? Liam came up with that one. A floral bouquet. Anyway, the place is new, somewhere in
Portland, called Enigma. It’s only an hour or so from where you’re staying. The review will be perfect
for our leaf-peeping issue in October.”
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Another forced eating session. I have to cover up, think of
something wise and eccentric to say, Robert can’t know what I’m really thinking.
“The restaurant is called Enigma?” I scoff, sounding like a true foodie snob. Ha! That’ll fool him. “Who
came up with that name? It sucks. Like, What’s on my plate? It’s an Enigma! Sounds like a winner,
Editor Whipple, sir.”
Robert snorted—that half-laugh, half-deviated septum noise he makes when he feels entertained or
something.
“Chickadee, you are a gas.”
Gas? No one actually uses that word any more, unless they have it. And what’s up with this chickadee
thing? That’s new. Does Robert think he’s being cute and hip and young again, or is he trying to make
a joke? After all, I'm at my mom’s summer cottage in Maine, and the chickadee is the Maine state bird.
On second thought, he’s not that intelligent. Liam might come up with something that cheesy, but
Liam is only editorial assistant—and Robert’s nephew, which explains how a dude who hates to read
got a job at bon Amuse magazine—so I rarely get direct assignments from him. He only talks to me
when he wants to grab my flat ass (that’s flat, not fat) or when he wants me to do a favor for him, like
bend over the copy machine or something. Okay, so he’s never actually gone that far, but still. I have
the distinct impression that it’s a distinct possibility.
So, I eat for a living--and drink bottles of wine more expensive than my out-on-the-town Louis Vuitton
handbag--then write about it for ELLEMENTS magazine. How utterly and absolutely fucked up is that?
But I’m good at pretending. I’m expert. It’s my life, how I subsist and maintain and balance my
imbalance.
The Anorexic Food Writer Becomes a Floral Bouquet
I pretend to eat, I pretend to enjoy; pretend not to gaze at my abdomen to be sure it suddenly hasn't
expanded a size or two, pretend not to want another glass of Shiraz when really, that '01 Henschke
Eden Valley was quite exceptional and hell yeah, I want more (Wine Spectator rated it a 95, but I'd give
it at least 97).
I’ll get fat if I keep this up. I’ll have to stop at some point. But hey, at this exact moment, I need the
money. We all have bills, right?
My chest fills with something thick and overflowing as Rett mumbles in his sleep, wrapping his arms
around my shoulders without realizing what he’s doing.
| ... after attending the Paso Robles Wine Festival |
|
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