SOUFFLÉ WITH COD AND DARK CHOCOLATE

02.06.04


Ever since I was a child, my mother used to feed me well. She has told me that she was scared that I might not grow up, since I was born premature and weighed as much as half a normal baby. She had stuck on stuffing my mouth with anything nutritious, so that I become fatty and bubbly. Not look like the children of Biafra. I, on the other hand, hadn’t discovered the greatness of gastronomy yet and denied persistently to gulp up all that food incessantly.

Mom used to buy little cods and stuff my mouth with them against my will. I couldn’t swallow the damn’ things. I couldn’t gulp them down, how can I say that? So Mrs. Maro tried everything (this is how my mother is called. By coincidence, this is also the name of the witty fox. If you want my opinion, nothing happens by chance in this world.). Only one trick had escaped her: the possibility of combining sweet with salty. Fooling thus the innocent kiddo, whose longing for dessert was such that he would swallow anything served with one or two pieces of dark chocolate. This is how cod with chocolate was created.

Everybody was happy; me, who ate my dear chocolate, and mom, for feeding me with her cod. My guts became greedy with time. The result was as follows: I became a great chocolate robber. I was constantly under surveillance. Mom, with her worried-sick look, counted my bites and thus forced me to search for new ways of escaping and finding sweet things to eat. Something to peck at while nobody is watching or needing to beg for one more little piece. A true junkie, that is.

My sole ally: granny Elsi. Giving me chocolates secretly and arguing with Maroula (nickname of Maro) for my sake. My grandmother was the greatest person in the world for me, not because she was doing me all the favours but because she was always happy when she knew that she could thank people all by herself. She never asked for anything. Neither did she complain about anything. If I took more notice to what she said, I would have learned how to cope with setbacks very early.

As time was passing, I watched my belly grow. It was unbelievably hard for me to cut down on sweets and fatty food. At some point, I got stressed. I believed I would grow old with my belly hanging on the floor and that later I would be buried with the top of the coffin open, since my belly would be far too big to close it. I intended to lose half my weight. I started being undernourished, eating basically small lettuces and fish. In time, I was evaporated and the bones on my face made me look more like an African mask than like a human being alive. I had only bones. I had no flesh.
Maroula was shocked. She threatened me that she would rush me to psychiatrists and made sure that she reminded me I did nothing else than harm myself. That’s how mom was. She always liked conducting psychoanalysis on all of us and exploring the deepest motives of our actions. She does this even today. We have simply learned not to care about that.

The truth is that I was scared with her diagnoses back then. I figured out that I had indeed learned to eat the least I could and, without wanting to, I found even the yummiest foods (no word for chocolate) disgusting. I thought about it a little. I saw myself falling apart. I got panicked even at the possible thought of becoming sick with anorexia. So I started stuffing myself. Hamburgers, little cakes, little ice creams and all the great things of the world.

Nowadays, I have a big belly again. I try to lose it but it seems to be hard. Summer is coming along. I will do my best. Not in the way I used to. I don’t want to be like those hysterical girlies that lie on the beach and cover themselves as soon as they get out of the water. As if anybody will care about their layers of fat. Personally, I have finally decided not to throw my food away no matter what.