In Short – Volume 1, Issue 1 (Spring 2024)

May 31, 2024

Image credit: Levi Morales

Comfort Food

By Richard Brynteson

Content warning: This piece contains references to eating disorders.

1

Cut and dice six large potatoes, one onion, three stalks of celery, four large carrots, and many long hours of loneliness into an extra-large soup pot.

Some mornings, I imagine returning to that low-budget motel in West Yellowstone and paying for those three “free” buffet breakfasts. Adam’s dad, Brad, was installing a new fuel pump for the van while my sons Jeshua and Adam, both 16 years old, and I, foraged for food. We strolled into a motel’s breakfast room and filled up at the buffet: hash browns, scrambled eggs, muffins. And then exited. The sign read “free breakfast,” after all.

2

Stir in a teaspoon of oregano, a pinch of rosemary, and an unhealthy dose of shame.

When I was 10 years old, living in rural northern Illinois, family friends embarked on a summer vacation and left me in charge of their house. I fed the cat, watered the garden, and mowed the lawn. I stole into their pantry and helped myself to their “good” cereal, handful by handful, day by day: Captain Crunch, Trix, and Raisin Bran. My family never bought the good stuff; we bought Cheerios because they were cheaper. Someday, I should apologize for my thievery.

3

In a separate frying pan, fry up a half cup of family angst. Don’t worry about too much grease from the bacon.

At the dining room table, my father quizzed my siblings and me on state capitals, multiplication tables, and authors and their masterpieces.

“Eight times seven is,” he quizzed. And we better get it right.

“Fifty-six.” Whew. He won’t yell.

“The capital of Montana is,” he barked.

“Helena.”

Who wrote “Little Women?” Who cares? Of course, you never said that.

We competed. But the more significant competition was getting it right quickly, so we did not earn our father’s disapproving scowl. Get it wrong, incite that anger, and knots would twist in my stomach. Louisa May Alcott.

4

Add eight cups of pure water and one cup of teardrops of sadness to the vegetables and allow all the emotions to linger in the pot.

We also dared not leave peas or any scraps on our plates.

“Those starving children in Biafra would make five meals from those scraps!”

My father was talking about his six uncles and aunts who starved to death as infants in northern Wisconsin in the 1890s. The ghosts of these infants glared at us during meals. Be thankful, they mouthed at us.

5

Pummel beef hunks with all of your accumulated anger. Simmer, uncovered, until the meat falls off the bone. Drain the stock and add meat to the vegetable pot.

In college, I snuck into the communal bathroom, knelt on the tile floor, stuck my finger down my throat until it hurt, and conjured up vomit. Until it was only dry heaves. I needed to get all of the fat out of my body. How shameful! I wondered if I could even vomit right. I had just eaten cabbage and honey for lunch and dinner. Bulimia is just for females, the therapist said.

6

Lightly simmer a head of garlic, a half cup of scallions, and an abundant amount of low self-esteem, and then add to a soup pot.

I did not recognize my eating disorder until later in adulthood. Even though I went to art openings in graduate school just for the free wine and cheese. Even though I stole downstairs as a father, grabbed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Double Fudge Chocolate Chip out of the freezer, sat on the toilet secretly, and wolfed it down, spoon by spoon, pint by pint.

Even though I would sit in meetings at work and try not to stare at the dark chocolate truffles in the center of the conference table. And wonder how many my fair share were, and when I could devour them, and why was I so fixated on the truffles that I could not pay attention to the meeting. I did my best to divert my eyes and focus on the discussion. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

7

Place soup pot on low heat and cook for four hours. While it is cooking, attend an Overeater’s Anonymous Zoom meeting.

I am in my twilight years, closer to death than to birth. I have made progress. Recently, I went to a Christmas party and did not visit the dessert table. But Ben & Jerry have to remain in exile from my house. M&M’s allure me uncontrollably. I still see the ghosts of my father’s dead aunts and uncles, clamoring for more to eat, reminding me that if I do not grab the food now, it might be gone in a flash.

Dr. Richard Brynteson (he/him) is a professor, executive coach, innovation consultant, author, and public speaker. He teaches in the MBA program at Concordia University, St. Paul, where he has been a professor of 32 years. He has published six books, on business subjects such as innovation and behavioral economics. He has worked with companies on innovation projects in Africa, Asia, and the United States. He has only had to bribe his way out of jail once.