Insatiable

I guess food surrounded (or was surrounded by) a lot of poignant moments in my life with Monga. She'd buy bunches of bananas (even though she didn't like them) because they were one sale, then force anyone she could to eat them, saying, "Well, I don't like 'em, so somebody better eat 'em". But, mostly, she was known for cooking too much of something and then feeling rejected when it all didn't get eaten (rice and pineapple with whipped cream, stuffing, roast, goulash). So, we all ate way too much even of things we didn't enjoy (beets, lima beans) just to appease Monga.

Not even german potato pancakes, a recipe passed down from Monga's mom (Grandma Struck), were liked by everyone. Potato pancake nights were loaded with their own unique ingredients: pounds of potatoes, bushels of parsley, sliced tomatoes, links of sausage, cubes of butter, suppressed anger, sarcasm, laughter, tantrums...The lovers of potato pancakes devoured 4 to 25 of them with sides of tomato and sausage. The haters of them took a half hour to swallow down 1 to 2, drowned in butter and chased with milk. But there was always, in someone, an undertone of something pent up that needed spoken. You could see it in the hard way they spread their butter, the way they asked if there was more tomato, set their plate on the table or cut a pancake and delivered it to their mouth. Eventually, someone would eat not enough to too much, triggering a comment from Monga that would domino people's defenses. Pretty soon, the kids would be off playing in another room as a few adults cleaned up, or filtered into the living room to watch TV, because someone yelled and stormed out of the house. It always felt like everyone thought a newly cleaned kitchen represented a fresh slate. We'd play a game afterwards, or return to our own homes (with an armful of leftovers).



But there was a time in my life when I could no longer temper Monga by eating her food. When I moved into her basement, I didn't just have the cold that'd caused me to sneeze all over my furniture and boxes of books. I had a full-fledged eating disorder. 5'6" and 100 pounds. The only way in which food was a priority was in my focus on keeping it away from me.

So you can maybe see, knowing Monga's manipulations of people's loyalties using food, how difficult living with her was, under the circumstances. All my life I'd enabled Monga's ploys by eating what I didn't want, more than I wanted, when I didn't want to. Now I was exercising (albeit in extreme) my rights as an eater.
Starving and purging are generally easier when done alone (I'm still surprised by how much of what people do is food-centered). Obviously, it was Monga's dual needs for isolation and control that complicated my life with her in my early 30's...

I'd come in the side door and try to sneak the basement door open, but Monga (who couldn't hear you ask for five dollars or a ride to the store) would always hear me.

"Jodie, is that you?"
I'd ball my hands into fists, grind my teeth.

"Yeah."
"Where've you been? It's 7 o'clock."
"At work, grandma." (Still standing by the basement door where she couldn't see me from her spot at the dining room table.)
"This late?"
"Yes. This late."
"Oh. Well, I saved you some dinner. I made it for you, but you didn't come home."
"No. I was at work."

(Silent pause in which Monga clinked her rings and I came around the corner where I could see her.)

"It's in the fridge," Monga said, "in the tupperware".
"I'm not really hungry."
"It's good."

Monga got up from her seat at the dining room table where she'd been playing Solitaire with a used deck of casino playing cards. She took the tupperware from the fridge and popped it into the microwave.

"You want to play me a game of Gin Rummy?" Monga asked. "We can play while you eat."

The smell of the roast and mashed potatoes with gravy made my nutrition-hungry brain swim.

"Sure," I said.

We sat down. Monga shuffled and dealt the cards. The microwave beeped.

"There's your supper," Monga said.

I went and got a fork and took my steaming plate to the table. The plate holding more food than I'd eaten in a week. I poked the roast with my fork.

"It's good," Monga said, organizing her hand.

I took a bite, chewing gingerly, as if this morsel of meat might become 10 pounds while still in my mouth. It really was good. I took another bite in spite of myself. We played our cards, Monga and I, until I'd eaten half my plate of food.

"I need to go at the bathroom," Monga said, rising from her seat. When I heard the click of the lock on the bathroom door, I quickly took my plate to the garbage where I buried the remainder of my meal beneath a milk container and a loaf of moldy bread. As Monga came out of the bathroom, I was rinsing off my plate.

"Good, wasn't it?" Monga said, sitting back down to the game.

"Yeah," I answered. I sat down, looked at my cards for a minute. "Gin," I said.



Monga's appetite for attention was insatiable.



One morning, I was heading out the door to work...

"Jodie!" Monga yelled.
"What? I have to go. I'm heading to work."
"Oh, you can stop for a minute. Here. Have a doughnut with me."
"Monga, I don't have-"
"-Yes, you do. Here. They're powdered doughnuts."

I took the doughnut from her and started to leave. I was just going to throw it somewhere when I got outside (over the neighbor's fence or something)--and soon--before I caved under the pressure of that sweet powdered sugar.

"Can't you just sit with me and have just one doughnut with me? I made fresh coffee."

I sighed heavily, took my doughnut to the dining room table, and sat staring at the elephant in the room.

"Aren't you going to have any coffee? I just made it. Someone needs to drink it," Monga asked, already pouring me a cup. "You take anything in yours?"
"No, Monga. Just black."
"Ick."
"Well, you don't have to drink it."
"No. I like mine with cream and sugar."

(Silent pause consisting of me dipping my licked finger into the powdered sugar and sucking it from my fingertip; Monga sipping her coffee.)

"You're just playing with that," Monga said disgusted, "Eat it."

I broke the doughnut in half, and ate a quarter of a half.

"I like mine dipped in my coffee," Monga said, watching me.
"I like it plain."
"Oh, not me. I like to dip it in my coffee. It's good that way."
"Then, dip yours in your coffee."
"Oh, I already had mine." She watched my every swallow.
"I have to go," I said, getting up; leaving the doughnut on the table.
"Take your doughnut with you!"

I left for work. Outside by my car, I stuck my finger down my throat and threw up the quarter of a half of the powdered doughnut and half a cup of black coffee. "You have it," I said as I started my car, "You can dip it in your coffee."