My name is LaVonne and I’m a food addict

Woke up this morning with a migraine again–not sure if it’s something in the air or withdrawal from caffeine. I quit Coke [again] a few days ago. Sugar too, but I cheated and had some orange sherbet yesterday.

It’s probably withdrawal. I hope it is, because I got up and did the shower/change sheets thing in the middle of the night but it didn’t help. That should have taken care of any lingering fragrance from recent outings to the store. I took some Excedrin Migraine a few minutes ago; two tablets contain the equivalent caffeine of a cup of coffee. If the headache goes away soon, we’ll know it’s withdrawal.

Feeling nauseous–wonder how to make ginger tea? Boil water, pour over ginger, duh.

–Found some peppermint tea, that should work though I’m curious to know how ginger would taste. Think I’ll experiment, since I have some ginger in the freezer–brb.

Verdict: Drink ginger tea more. Much more.

Headache’s fading = very good. [Update: it came back, then it faded, then back again--I think we're talking caffeine/sugar withdrawal here, not fragrance/chems.]

This makes me think about my growing interest in natural cooking. Maybe, instead of writing a book about MCS activists–which is a bit overwhelming to me at the moment–I should write about healing foods [like that hasn't been done before! Note to self: Well, definitely read those books and learn all you can. That's the important thing. Write about the process and blog it. That would be good. Try recipes and report on their health effects. Start w/Jeanne's garlic recipe.]

Yes. I’ll write about my relationship with food. It’s a stormy one, that’s for sure. Love, hate and fear. Why? Because I’m addicted to it. How did this happen? I don’t know. I just remember being unable to think about anything else at family gatherings: the heaping bowl of hot mashed potatoes; the elegant gravy boat; the “hot dishes” aka casseroles: potatoes au gratin and green beans with mushroom soup and French’s crispy onion rings; the tuna macaroni salad; the fruit salad [oh, the fruit salad! Grapes, sliced bananas, canned mandarin oranges, cut-up marshmallows and real whipped cream--can heaven be any better?]; and of course, the turkey or ham, depending on the holiday.

The meat wasn’t important to me; it was the trimmings. As a child, I wanted nothing to do with: white meat, gravy, stuffing, squash or that awful candied yam dish with marshmallows baked brown on top. I’ve since changed my mind about all but the squash and the yams. [Are yams and sweet potatoes the same, or different? That has always confused me, not being a southerner. I think they're different, perhaps related but different. Anyway, someone once showed me the delights of baked sweet potatoes with butter and forever erased my prejudice against them. I still reserve judgement on yams, however.]

Then there was the pie: apple and pumpkin, both homemade from scratch and delicious. In our family, the adults ate their hot apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese, a taste I acquired post-adolescence. We children preferred ice cream melting into a puddle of cinnamon, sugar and apples. When mine was gone, I might have licked my plate if no one had been looking. Now I do, in the privacy of my apartment.

Pumpkin pie, of course, required a large dollop of homemade whipped cream; no canned whip for us [although I have a sneaking memory of a can of Reddi-Whip sitting in Grandma's fridge along with her half & half. Maybe she slid some into her coffee for a pre-Starbucks treat.]

With the buffet table groaning under such a feast, I never understood how my cousins and uncles could focus on play and conversation in the living room while the aunts in the kitchen baked the crescent rolls [oh, to die for!] and brought out the butter and coffee. Why did no one but me seem compelled to race to the head of the line when dinner was finally announced? Why did I [then and still] force myself to wait until two or three others got in line before I casually stood up and pretended that I didn’t want to push them out of the way and load up my plate?

Well, that’s a food addict for you. And that’s how it started, somewhere around age eight or nine. I was a skinny kid in spite of my addiction, until puberty and its pressures persuaded me to bulk up for self-protection.

But that’s another entry.