comfort eating in times of burnout
comfort eating in times of burnout
open for a french childhood snack crash course
A little over a week ago, my GP signed me off work for a while to heal from burnout. “The disease of the century”, said my mum when I called to share the news. Since then, I’ve tried to occupy my days as best I can, watching the stress rashes on my hands and the fog in my brain slowly clear away while I dig through the rubble to recover the person I know I once was.
Maybe to have tangible, written proof of what that person does when left unsupervised, I’ve been keeping done lists. Every night before I turn the lights off, I write down everything I’ve done that day, however mundane. I’ve made note of every stage of La Vuelta I’ve watched, every conversation I’ve had, every load of laundry I’ve done.
The lists keep track of how I’ve been feeding myself – roasting a whole chicken, putting all the vegetables I have into one big ratatouille, or bringing goûter (the French 5pm sweet snack that signals the end of the work or school day) back into my daily life. In times like these, if you’re lucky enough to still be in touch with where you come from as I am, I guess you find ways to bring home closer to you. I didn’t consciously set out to do it, but for the past week I’ve been eating like a family of one, cooking a week’s worth of Sunday lunch dishes at a time and alternating between the roles of the feeder and the fed. My life is softer, my time allowed to pass more slowly thanks to an equally exhausted past version of myself who knew that the extra effort would be worthwhile.
I didn’t consciously register the symbolism of visiting my local French deli on my first day of rest either, until I found myself moved by the familiar weight of a La Laitière vanilla yoghurt cupped in my hand. My London friends may hoard empty Gü pots, but the French have La Laitère to use as emergency ashtrays, tea candle holders, and more.
Call it intuitive eating: every time I feel guilty for opting out of my family and friends’ daily life, I find myself elbow-deep in a box of the Barquette chocolate-hazelnut biscuits I ration for weeks after each trip home.
I never appreciated the serendipity of accidentally ending up in the area of London where seemingly half of France lives until that day. However much I like to distance myself from posh expats with thick accents and bottomless disposable income from my neck of the woods, I crave the same pantry staples as they do. They and I know that, when you’re missing home, no London café’s croissant is going to cut it – a box of Mousline instant mashed potatoes, however…
Comfort eating means something new for me these days; not the “guilty” pleasures I’d thought of it as, but instead food that makes my life more comfortable by making me feel loved and taken care of.
Before even thinking of the deli, my first port of call was the farmers market, where I can get beautiful produce directly from the hands that grew it. Do these farmers not feed me when they pour months of their life into growing what I eat on their land? How could I ever get better without the fruits of their labour nourishing me and keeping me strong? The day after that, I went to New Malden’s H Mart, where one of the largest Korean diasporas outside of Korea shops for the food that tastes like home, so that I could have a taste too.
While I rest and mend myself, I’ve been pulling a sense of home towards me like a blanket, using the one I grew up in to rebuild the one I live in right now. After months of being too exhausted to do anything about it, it was under its own rubble, untidy and underused. I clean every corner of my kitchen to make it a happy place, take deep dives into my pantry to revive the dishes I used to cook, and visit the fridge any time I fancy regardless of meal time.
I miss the bottle of homemade kombucha my assistant brings me every day, but I don’t miss al desko lunches getting interrupted by “just a quick question” every three minutes. I miss the pot of specialty coffee I make for the office manager and myself every morning, but I don’t miss having to account for my packed lunches’ microwavability. I miss the debrief the morning after a coworker went to a nice restaurant, but I miss feeling at home in my own life more. All it takes to get back there is time to feed myself.
Anyhoo, this doesn’t mean I’m taking a break from writing this newsletter. I will continue loitering in your inbox for the foreseeable purely because I enjoy it.
Not only that – as previously threatened, I’m trying to become a better writer. So, if you have any feedback for me, please do leave a comment, DM me, or fill out this form if you’re shy. Thank you!