Saturday was always my favourite day;

not just for the sport of it

and the lack of schooling,

but the absence of choice.

Saturday was stew and dumplings;

the day I didn’t eat my food

in alphabetical order.  

 

You’ll have heard of anorexia,

binge-eating and bulimia,

but you’ve not heard of eating food

in alphabetical order.

Have you?

I’ve checked, and it isn’t

a recognised condition;

like the back of the knees

it has no fancy title

and goes unremarked

in medical manuals,

psychological journals

and culinary compendia.

It’s just me.

 

It began when I couldn’t decide

where to begin: sitting in the kitchen,

staring at sausage, egg, chips, and beans.

A panic attack, stress or depression;

I must have had a lot

on my plate at the time.

Mentally rearranging

the meal alphabetically:

beans, chips, egg and sausage;  

devouring them in combinations,

like an accumulative wager

of doubles and trebles:  

 

beans-chips, egg-sausage,

beans-egg, chips-sausage,

beans-sausage, egg-chips,

beans-chips-egg,

beans-chips-sausage,

beans-egg-sausage,

chips-egg-sausage,

then finally the big one

beans-chips-egg-sausage,

all on one fork,

all in one mouthful.  

 

It was like winning a bet

or completing a puzzle.  

The crisis was over,

the world was my oyster,

but for a short duration

until the passion fattened

and became overpowering

and I lay sleepless each night

poring over sauces and sweets and stuffing. 

Are roast potatoes an R or a P?

Apple sauce? A or S? Baked Alaska? B or A?

Brussels sprouts? Garden peas?

Broccoli or calabrese?

Taking hours over dinner,

losing weight from worry

when I only wanted to eat right.

 

As I grew older and more pretentious

I saw myself as a victim of Western affluence –

a product of a consumer society,

tortured by too much choice.

When I left home and had to cook for myself,

the question What to eat next?

became existential  

What to eat? 

 

My solution was predictable

Sunday        Angels on Horseback – Almond and Apricot Flan

Monday       Black-eyed Bean Salsa – Bread and Butter Pudding

Tuesday       Cauliflower Cheese – Chocolate Cake

Wednesday  Danish Peasant Girl With Veil – Dates

Thursday      Egg, Endive and Edam Salad  – Eve’s Pudding

Friday           Fish – Flapjacks

Saturday       Grilled Gammon  – Gooseberry Fool

 

And so on, ad nauseam.

On the seventeenth day I made

Quiche Lorraine and collapsed weeping

beneath twenty-three cookery books

for want of a sweet that began with Q.

I thought I’d reached rock bottom

and vowed to break the habit,

but the next day it was Ravioli and Rock Cake.

It was less than a week to x, y and z –

I had to do something fast - or just fast.

 

 

 

 

 

I struck lucky and met a honey

who made chilli con carne,

lasagne, spaghetti bolognaise

and stew with dumplings:

the kind of meals you don’t have

to think about too much.

 

We were wed in a hurry;

she does all the cooking

while I check the bookshelves

are filed correctly from A to Z.

I scratch my head

at the likes of du Maurier and de Quincey

and those Chinese authors

have got me flummoxed.

But I’m doing just fine

and can’t work out why

everyone thinks I’m in need of help.