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There are only a few things that can rob me of my appetite: depression, tonsillitis, and, perhaps most seriously, heartbreak. After my first boyfriend dumped me at 17, eating seemed futile, pointless. My angelic, doting mother pushed plate after plate of comfort food towards me, but it tasted exclusively of cardboard. I kept losing weight, my face becoming gaunt, until one day I decided to go to Korea Foods in New Malden, mainly to get myself out of bed.
Walking through the aisles, happiness, or something like it, bubbled up inside me. The garish packaging! The jumbo radishes! Maybe , I thought, I do have it in me to make something to eat. And so I filled my basket with whatever looked appealing, along with a candy-floss drink to have on the train home. Back in our kitchen, I sliced King Oyster mushrooms into thick wedges, frying them until they had crisp brown edges, then added garlic and a fat lump of butter.
I steamed some rice, piled some kimchi on top, then crowned the dish with the king fungi and all his savoury juices. My stomach turned — and my appetite vanished. I stood in the blue light of my fridge, and pulled out some Italian sausage and wilted basil, an onion wedge and some flaccid celery, and fried them all up with some garlic, a scent better than any man filling my kitchen. I added some tinned tomatoes, left my anti-love potion to simmer, and had a shower to wash him off of me for good.
Then I got into my pyjamas and ate my dinner cross-legged on the sofa, feeling weirdly superior. And then there was the most recent time I lost my appetite, when, right before I had to start a double shift in a restaurant kitchen, a man I had been falling in love with revealed himself to be… a prick. I felt like my organs were shutting down one by one, but I had 16 hours of cooking in a windowless kitchen ahead of me.