Secret eating is seldom spoken about or easily admitted. If you ask most people what they enjoy eating alone, without sharing, they hesitate with a questioning look. Or mumble that they don’t know. It’s possible they’ve never experienced this solitary pleasure.
The desire to eat unobserved isn’t like bingeing on ice cream or sneaking candy bars to feed your chocolate craving. It’s not comfort food either. It is something you do surreptitiously, consciously, and quietly by yourself. It is a moment, by choice, of indescribable satisfaction.
A survey of extended family members about clandestine eating revealed only one answer close to my definition. It came from my daughter-in-law who is Latvian with Russian heritage. She formed a covert eating ritual as a child, from the age of ten. In the summertime, after her parents left for the evening, she went to the market by herself. She bought a huge watermelon with pennies saved or found under chair cushions. Lugging it home, she managed to cut it in two, carried half to the living room sofa, watched television, and ate it down to the rind. Spoonful by decadent spoonful. Including the seeds. She was not under the watchful eye of anyone, or told to get a plate, or to sit on the floor, or not make a mess. She did it quietly and happily, for her own pleasure.
M.F.K. Fisher [1908-1992] wrote a wonderful story about secret eating. It took place one frigid winter when she and her husband lived in an unheated walkup apartment in Strasbourg, France. They were depressed by the unending cold, dreary grayness and couldn’t afford to move. So they rented a room in a pension for one luxurious week. It came with a big bed, billowy curtained windows and heat.
Each morning after waving Al off to the university, Mary Frances sat in the window considering the day ahead. She wasn’t ready to brave the outdoor temperatures. While the maid fluffed up duvets and pillows, murmuring in her Alsatian accent, Fisher carefully peeled several small tangerines. Meticulously separating each orange crescent and removing all the white “strings” between pieces, she placed the sections on top of newspaper over the radiator. And forgot about them.
There was a long lunch when Al returned and perhaps a wee nip of “digestif” from the decanter on the dresser before he went back to afternoon classes. By this time the orange sections had majestically puffed up, ready to burst with heat and fullness. Opening the window, she carefully placed them in the snow on the outside sill. Several chilling minutes passed. Then it was time.
For the rest of the afternoon, Mary Frances sat watching the world go by on the street below, savoring each orange morsel slowly and voluptuously. She reveled in the spurt of cold pulp and juice after biting through the crackling skin that was like …”a little shell, thin as one layer of enamel on a Chinese bowl”. She mused while vendors sold half-frozen flowers, children ran home from school, and prostitutes sipped hot tea in a café across the way.
Winter’s early darkness descended and the orange sections were gone. She couldn’t exactly say what was so magical about them. Yet she knew that others with “secret eatings of their own” would somehow understand.
I read this story many years before we moved to Europe. The first winter we lived in Germany, I traveled by myself to Strasbourg on a train from Frankfurt. Next to Place Gutenberg is a small hotel where I stayed in a room under the roof. The spire of the Strasbourg Cathedral was visible when I stuck my head out the dormer window. The bathroom was at the top of an open staircase right under the peak.
That February was bitterly cold.
I bought a bag of small clementines, peeled them into sections, and laid them on a piece of hotel stationery on top of the radiator. Then I went out to explore.
When I returned, the oranges had grown fat and hot just as Fisher described. There was no snow, but the outside temperature was below freezing. Out on the sill they went. When thoroughly chilled, I ate them one by one in the dim afternoon light. It was true–the skins were crisp and crackling. So thin that, when you bit through them, there was a “pop” followed by the rush of cool juice and pulp. It was a replay moment from the pages of a story by a writer I had long admired. It made me happy.
Several years later, a new secret eating ritual started during a visit with “Dietitian Daughter” in Colorado. She was buying a snack item for her husband from the bulk bins of a national food chain. I watched her fill a bag with flattened, dull-colored, brownish-orange pieces of fruit. They looked run over by a truck. They were unsweetened dried mangos. Dehydrated into stiffened leather. She handed me a piece and said, “Try it”.
The first sensation was what it looked like–rough, tough hard-edged, with the taste and texture of dust on shoes. As salivary juices kicked in, that road-kill-looking mango became softer, warmer, and pliable. Careful considerate chewing brought out interesting changes. It turned vaguely sweeter but held onto the essence of fruity leather. I had to chew slowly, without hurrying, before it was ready to swallow. I had to pay attention.
The degree of subtlety from dry dusty toughness to a satisfying payoff several minutes later completely hooked me. I took my own bag back to Paris.
Now when I feel the urge, I go to the hiding place in the kitchen and randomly choose several pieces of dried mango. Then I stand or sit in a window of our apartment overlooking the vine-laden courtyard where I never tire of the view.
If I stand in the kitchen window during secret eating time, I might muse over the spring unfolding of the Virginia creeper vines or the work-in-progress renovations on the apartment across the courtyard. The neighbour’s cat might be outside on the balcony chirping wistfully at pigeons. If I choose to sit in the warm afternoon sun of the dining room windows, I have a private view of sky, rooftops, vine covered brick walls, and my own blooming geraniums.
Or, I might decide to stand in the street-side windows at the front of the apartment where I take note of pedestrians, shopkeepers, or a trumpet-playing street musician four stories below.
My secret eating is something I try to keep to myself. It gives me great pleasure and satisfaction. But what is it really? Like Fisher, I can’t exactly say. Perhaps it’s simply a meditative time-out, or a few private minutes of simply “being” and not “doing”, or a satisfying break in the midst of a day, a week, a month.
There must be someone out there who understands what I mean…
14 thoughts on “Secret Eating”
Finally I get to catch up on your wonderful blogs! My admission to secret eating is very infrequently finding Ben and Jerry’s Super New York Fudge Chunk ice cream and indulging in an entire pint with only a decaf (makes no sense) coffee and calling that a meal.
Jerry, thanks for sharing your “secret” eating. Most people are too shy to fess up. Or maybe they do not wish to divulge private cravings publicly…
As usual, what you say is as much fun as how you say it. The images and descriptions you use are a feast!
Marilyn, what a nice comment. Merci mon amie.
Secret eating is a new concept to me; I did very much enjoy reading your piece though!
And congratulations to you and Mark on your new daughter-in-law. Such exciting news!
Happy for you!
All of the secret eating were things that are nutritious. Even the watermelon. My secret eating runs to the not-nutritious–and that, as they say, makes all the difference! Perhaps I should change my cravings.
Marilyn, Ruth Reichl says that eating is learned behavior. It’s one of the ways cultures define themselves. Perhaps secret eating is learned too, whether from a person, a story, or your own inner workings. I don’t really know. I know what I like to eat and how it makes me feel. A secret “time-out”, by myself, with myself, is nourishing beyond the physical. Still, choices and cravings are different for everyone.
Again, you bring international culture into my home with your excellent choices of visual and written imagery. Your secret eating is a delectable healthy secret. Mine is all about sweet tooth binges. No matter…..I know…..my secret is safe with you. Right?
Diane, Girlfriends definitely know how to keep secrets. It’s just that I am known to leak some of mine…only in the nature of good story telling, of course.
Charming story and magnificent pictures. The courtyard was breath taking!
I am especially going to look for the mangos next time in Sprouts grocery store!
Keep the stories coming Wendy. And the PICTURES!!!
Carol, I don’t know the Sprouts franchise, but try their competitor if you don’t find unsweetened road kill looking mangos in their bulk bins.
Such healthy secret-eating choices! I’m thinking Dove ice cream bites (the whole container, of course) or similar bad-for-you treat. Wonderful post. Makes one ponder the possibilities.
Betty, I’m glad you willingly share one of your own obsessions! There are indeed many possibilities. It’s certainly time and taste driven. And always changeable…
Cheers to dried mango! Beautifully written and wonderful pictures! I love that I can close my eyes and just imagine where you are as you look out the beautiful windows in your apartment to the Parisian life ebbing and flowing below…secretly eating your delicious dried mango!