Sex and Bacon (8 page)

I wrote and discarded several emails to my editress in response to the cover image she’d asked me to consider. Finally, I wrote,
If we’re going to use a woman’s body on the cover of this book, can we at least pick a model who looks like she both eat
and
fucks?

I imagined an alternate image: a thick, sleek otter of a woman, rounded and grinning, posed from the front so you could see all the personality and individuality of her face. I saw her leaning against the sink with her arms crossed sassily a plate of cake parked next to one gorgeous thigh. I dressed her in the same lacy black panties, but all of a sudden they were way too sexy—almost obscene—so I replaced them with well worn, fitted jeans that ‘were erotic in a different ‘way, speaking to a woman’s comfort in her own kitchen and her pleasure in filling her belly with a sweet treat, simply for its own sake. I left her shirt off—her crossed arms covering her breasts for modesty’s sake—and imagined her stomach, a strong convex arc.

Now
that’s
the proper image for a book about sex and food
, I thought approvingly. A woman who evidently takes pleasure in both eating and fucking—a lady who personifies Appetite, and has the flesh to prove it.

When I sent my suggestions for a more appropriate cover image back to my publisher, my objections were taken seriously. The art department ended up bagging the whole “anonymous, naked fashion model in the kitchen” idea. Instead, the new cover featured
me
—scantily clad in my own real-life kitchen, brandishing my favorite cast-iron skillet. My bluff had been summarily called:
You want a picture of a woman who eats and fucks? You got it, babe
Wlien I saw the new cover mock-up, I couldn’t stop laughing. I loved it.

I figure if you’re going to use the image of a nearly nude female to sell a product, the most honorable way to slum is to at least use your own damn body, in all its quirky imperfection, instead of paying another woman to drop her drawers for you. So, after over a decade of peeling off my clothes for strangers, I’m finally putting my own flesh on the line for this book. I wrote it and that’s my real, live, chubby, bacon-loving body on the cover. On a book cataloguing my appetites in obsessive, slobbering, and occasionally disgusting detail, anyone who wants to can look at my flesh and form their own opinions —and that seems about right to me.

“LAMB,” “THE BACON
Quotient,” “Red Gravy,” and “Forbidden Fruit” are about my unquenchable lust for flesh. “Red Gravy” was one of the first pieces I wrote for this book, and “Forbidden Fruit” was one of the last.

“Thin” and “Fat” are about our attempts to control our bodies.

And “Host” poses the question
What’s eating you?

Throw a big, bloody steak on the grill and enjoy.

IT’S FINALLY FALL, AFTER A LONG, MISERABLE SUMMER
during which Seattle resembled Los Angeles more than any seagoing city ever should. The rains haven’t started yet, but I look forward to them. The city still stinks of summer: hot pavement, dog shit, dying grass, and the exhaust fumes of a million stalled vehicles. We need rain to wash our poor city clean. As an added benefit, the rain will put a six-month damper on all outdoor activities and the sporty people who enjoy them. While the Frisbee tossers stay in and nurse their seasonal affective disorder, the city becomes mine again. I look forward to endless urban hikes wrapped in my big wool coat. I don’t even mind the obligatory rain jokes that must be tolerated for the sake of municipal order.

I’m a grouch and I don’t like summer at all. The dreariness of fall suits me just fine, thank you very much. I’m at my best when the days are short. I love the sun when it’s just a silver coin high in the sky, shedding little heat and less light. I love bundling up, wearing scarves and gloves and sweaters and multiple pairs of socks. Everyone’s so much more attractive in cold-weather clothing—the lines of their bodies are smoothed out and their flaws are concealed. You can look at them and imagine anything you like.

Most of all, though, I love the food of autumn.

I have a lamb roast in the refrigerator, marinating in olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and handfuls and handfuls of both garlic and oregano. Though lamb is a paschal food, meant to be eaten in the spring, I intend to hunker down, bundle up, and roast my lamb in a low, slow oven.

I plan on leaving the lamb roast to marinate for a few days, turning it every twenty-four hours or so. By the time I put it into my oven, it’ll be so tender it’ll fall apart at the merest whisper of fork-pressure. The long, slow roasting will transform the surface of the meat into a savory crust that will protect the cool pink interior from becoming overly done, resulting in slices of lamb that are crisp and salty on the outside and meltmgly silky on the inside. I’ll cook the lamb with small white potatoes, which will become coated with lamb drippings as they bake. I could eat potatoes cooked with drippings all day and never even miss the meat.

Autumn food also means pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin mousse, and pumpkin soup. Pumpkin everything. I do love cooked pumpkin, with its beta-carotene and its virtuous fiber. I love it sweet, I love it savory, I even like it carved up into jack-o’-lanterns. I never thought I’d have so much affection for a gourd.

Autumn food is all about roasting, slow-cooking, stewing, and simmering. Autumn food is about patience. When the days are short and your apartment’s freezing, a warm oven can be your hearth. Wliy spend your home time chilly and miserable in your living room? A cozy kitchen can be your base of operations. Invite your friends m, get them half-drunk on hearty red wine, and feed them.

I HAVE A FRIEND WITH AN EATING DISORDER. IN ABOUT
nine months I watched her shrink from a healthy size 16 to a loose-skinned size 4. She has no plans to stop until she reaches the Mecca towardwhich all anorexics point and pray five times a day: size 0. When she reaches 0, she says, she’ll stop. When she can wear toddler-size jeans, she says, she’ll finally feel thin.

The idea of child-size jeans with absurdly long, adult-woman-length legs makes me think of christening gowns. All that fussy white lace cascading nearly to the floor! Should she reach size 0 and decide to marry, my friend could slip into a christening gown just as easily as a wedding dress, and nobody would be the wiser. Maybe that’s what anorexics really want: a second crack at the clothes they wore as infants.

Meanwhile, my friend’s skin is craterous and her hair is dull and, worst of all, she lost her weight strangely: Her arms and legs are pipe-cleaner thin and her poor pitted face is gaunt, making her teeth and tongue appear far too large for her head, but the tiny amount of body fat she does carry wraps around her hips and lower belly like an inner tube, giving her a bottom-heavy look despite her emaciation. She waddles when she walks: Her knees barely kiss, and there’s a vast whistling triangular gap between her thighs where muscle and fat should be. Her inner tube of flesh swings from side to side awkwardly with every step.

I imagine her body causes her much distress. I picture her standing in front of her full-length mirror every night determined to
keep starving
. I think of her pinching the skm of her belly and hips and ass viciously, wishing it all away. And honestly, it’s the fat around her middle that’s probably keeping her from being a size 0 already. Without it she’d have the torso of a toddler. A
thin
toddler. Then maybe she could finally stop.

At size 16 she was sleek and sexy, a big healthy horse of a girl, all strong flank and firm, high ass. She was toned. She
rippled
. She didn’t realize how hot she was: Men and women watched her longingly. Now she fucks boys who are willing to overlook her appearance, or who are able to eroticize it as insectile, dangerous, alien. At least I hope that’s what they’re doing when they bend her over and fuck her, staring down at the bumpy knobs of her spine. I hope they’re not fantasizing about toddlers in snap-crotch jeans or infants in christening gowns.

Since losing so much weight, my friend is frail and easily tires. I catch her staring at my thighs and belly with fascination, the way we sneak peeks at amputees and burn victims and extremely obese people riding Rascals. When we eat together she counts my bites. I’ve caught her mentally measuring my girth and shaking her head at my unapologetic fleshiness.
A double-digit dress
size! Better to be dead than that fat ever again

Today i ate an apple and half a subway sandwich
, she emailed me.
that’s it!

“Today I ate pancakes and sausage for breakfast, chicken teriyaki for lunch, and a big beet salad for dinner, ”I wrote back. “I had a slice of fresh, homemade raspberry crumble pie for dessert.”

I didn’t hear from her again for two weeks. I suppose the raspberry pie was unforgivable.

Which is not to say that I never feel fat and never make an effort to slim down. When my clothes start feeling tight, I make a few concessions: I’ll bake my fish instead of frying it, and I’ll have fruit and yogurt for breakfast instead of French toast. I drink more water and less alcohol, and I try to work in a few more visits to the gym. At my smallest, I’m a size 10. At my heaviest, I’m a 12. That range feels about right to me. I have no idea what I weigh.

I have a real problem with anorexia. I can’t help seeing it as internalized misogyny.

The thing is, women are supposed to bewoman-shaped. Our thighs are supposed to touch. We’re at our best when we’re healthy, strong, soft, and libidinous. We’re at our most fuckable when we’re well fed and sleek, not when we’re dry as toast and out of our minds with hunger. So if you want to get a little more toned, remember everything you put in your mouth should bring you pleasure and feed your beautiful curves, whether it’s lard-fried chicken or an abstemious bite of salad. Being hungry and miserable is never okay. Hunger makes women mean and dumb, and Lord knows we need all our wits about us just to exist in this world as thinking, feeling, art-creating women. If-we’re too hungry to think, we’re too hungry to fuck shit up. If we’re too hungry to fuck shit up, we’re collaborating with the enemy.

That means:
Eat real food
. Foods labeled “low-cal,” “fat-free,” “sugar-free,” “diet,” or—God forbid—"lite,” are like fake orgasms: They look just like real food, but they don’t satisfy. If you want something low-cal, fat-free, and sugar-free, eat a carrot. Chemicals are no substitute for nutrients.

One of my favorite weapons in the battle I like to call “Operation: Get Less Fat! ” are those big bags of boneless, skinless chicken breasts you find in the frozen section of any big grocery store. Throw a bag of chicken breasts into your freezer, and when you’re hungry, simply defrost a few pieces, bake them at 400 degrees for about twenty to twenty-five minutes, and voila—good clean-burning protein with nary a “lite” in sight.

Of course nobody likes plain, unseasoned chicken. So try some of the following before baking:

• Rub your chicken with a little olive oil. Mince a few cloves of garlic (or, if you’re like me, use a couple of spoonfuls of bottled preminced garlic or garlic paste from a tube). Massage the garlic into the chicken and finish with a generous dusting of both salt and pepper.
  
• Marinate the chicken in your favorite vinaigrette salad dressing for twenty-four hours, turning once.
  
• Mix up equal portions of soy sauce, honey, and canola or olive oil. Add a generous spoonful of garlic and another spoonful of ground ginger. Add a splash of lemon juice. You can either marinate the chicken in this mixture for a day or you can just brush it on both sides and bake it immediately (though the flavor will be stronger and richer if you let your chicken soak overnight).
  
• Make a sauce of plain yogurt and dill. Put some on the chicken before baking, and keep some in the refrigerator to use as a dip once your chicken is cooked. Slice the breasts into strips, dip them into the cool yogurt-dill, and eat them with your fingers. Better yet, let someone feed you.
  
• Rub the chicken breasts with a little butter. Sprinkle them with a generous amount of dried rosemary and a little thyme. Finish with salt and pepper. The butter will make your chicken brown beautifully, and the rosemary will make your whole house smell delicious.