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Reflections on Food, Relationships, and Personal Growth

French toast was the first meal he prepared for me. Crafted from banana bread he had baked the day before and generously slathered in butter and syrup, it was accompanied by bacon and eggs. Despite my nature as someone who typically doesn’t indulge in breakfast or crave sweets, I found myself going back for seconds. At that time, I was a 27-year-old food writer, yet I struggled to properly nourish myself. I often ignored my hunger until it became unbearable, leading me to devour convenience foods like pizza or Tex-Mex specials. It was no surprise that I became infatuated with the burly Midwesterner who would transform mornings into culinary experiences while I stayed in bed a little longer.

Before receiving my ADHD diagnosis, I viewed my erratic eating habits as just another character flaw, which I thought I would eventually overcome. At the time, I was living comfortably in a spacious, budget-friendly prewar apartment in a gradually revitalizing Kansas City neighborhood. The area had just enough vacant apartments and take-out spots to cater to my aversion to roommates, traditional jobs, and extensive meal preparation. I convinced my landlord to allow me to paint the cabinets a bright robin’s-egg blue, hoping that a small renovation would inspire me to cook more frequently. To an extent, it worked; I began experimenting with homemade salad dressings and enjoyed roasted Brussels sprouts and red wine a couple of times each week. It was delightful and satisfying.

Sharing life with Breakfast Guy made the prospect of a stable future seem attainable—one where I could navigate life’s unpredictability with a partner who shared my interests in music, a love for outdoor adventures, and a taste for fine dining. After three months of dating, he moved in with me. Our arrangement was simple: he cooked, and I cleaned. It provided a comfortable balance of autonomy and togetherness, allowing for a mix of solo evenings and delightful meals shared.

Infatuated and perhaps a bit lacking in iron levels, I easily surrendered my healthier food choices for his bacon cheeseburgers, cheddar-stuffed brats, and rich pork chops, all with hearty sides and desserts. His passion for indulgence was charming, particularly the late-night nachos he would whip up whenever I hinted at hunger.

Filled with love, gratitude, and hearty food, I even proposed that we serve a whole roast pig at our wedding instead of a traditional cake, celebrating our culinary journey together through renowned eateries along the West Coast. However, following our honeymoon, a subtle shift emerged in our relationship. I mustered the courage to bring it up only to discover his expectation that we would dine together nearly every evening, alongside his wish for me to take more responsibility in meal-making.

Working long hours in my publishing role, I found solace in picking at leftovers while curling up with my husband after a tiring day. Preparing meals for two on a regular schedule was daunting, especially given my overwhelming nature. Yet, I found it flattering—though a bit irritating—that he desired more shared moments. I conceded, thinking it simpler than confronting the unaddressed needs that underpinned our dynamic.

While my attempts at roast chicken were well-meaning, they failed to dispel the underlying tension at home, prompting a realization that perhaps marriage was inherently challenging.

When our first child arrived, my focus shifted entirely toward caring for the newborn. Dealing with lactation issues and postpartum anxiety proved to be exhausting. My body longed for fresh, nutritious foods, though I struggled to muster the energy to prepare them. Each time my husband presented a hearty dish he had made, I experienced transient feelings of that “us against the world” partnership I had envisioned.

I resolved to reclaim my culinary skills for my own well-being.

Then, six years into our marriage, I received an ADHD diagnosis. This revelation elucidated the difficulties I faced in establishing routines and initiating seemingly straightforward tasks. While it didn’t erase years of self-criticism, it prompted me to practice self-compassion. I hoped my husband would extend the same understanding to me. Unfortunately, we cycled through couples counseling, with sessions often highlighting my neurodivergence as the main cause of our problems. Through those discussions, I recognized that if I wanted a happy family, I needed to significantly change who I was.

By the time I reached 41, I barely recognized myself. Juggling two young children, a demanding job, a book project, and a troubled marriage felt like an unending game of Whac-A-Mole. I lived in the same worn-out sweatpants for days, lacking a social life, and I found myself enviously eyeing the simple hotel rooms my husband enjoyed during his frequent work trips. Change was necessary, though the specifics eluded me.

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www.bonappetit.com