Many of us will leave lockdown a few pounds heavier than we started it, but there is no shame in finding pleasure in food
You know how people fill online baskets with clothes they never buy? I do that now with food. I see something advertised, compile an extravagant order, then don’t follow through. In the past few weeks, I have almost ordered hand-pulled noodles, oysters and something described as a “pistachio black forest gateau” (I am still thinking about that one).
It’s a new iteration of emotional eating, still apparently my main hobby and way of marking the passage of time. Friday is pizza, Saturday is jumbo Hula Hoops, Easter Sunday was fistfuls of Mini Eggs, anticipated then enjoyed with the abandon of one of the worst Roman emperors. Most evenings, my husband and I stand in the kitchen rationalising that it’s perfectly reasonable to have what he calls “a proper apéritif” (he means crisps with our drinks, but wants to sound sophisticated).
