Confucius Never Credited Confusion-

My mouth is running dry and the cavernous oral cavity is laced with the air-conditioned air that is thick with social awkwardness. I am attempting to converse with two dieticians in tow. I am attempting to milk every moment for what it’s worth by parsing out rituals I have dabbled in before - like brushing my teeth to cleanse my palette before and after each and every meal in order to not combine tastes and flavors. I brought attention to my progress, from isolating different components of an entree, like an English muffin breakfast sandwich, to taking whole bites, to eating at a pace that I want to instead of elongating the duration of eating in order to savor different flavor profiles. I felt as though I was trying to convince them what a challenge this would be because they were so unknowing about the type of niche cuisine I chose for my first outing to eat a meal. For all they know, I could have lied and chosen something that was not challenging- something that I would not normally order.

This is not where I am from, I kept trying to tell them. My father is from the opposite end of the country, however, I grew up eating this type of cuisine because it was a popular eating out item for my parents and I. I would love going down an artery of Flushing, the heart of Queens, New York, that was dotted with Hindu temples and narrow two-way streets that are blocked by public buses occasionally stopping and picking up, acting as proxy police to dismantle the faux parking spots formed by those double-parking, sometimes for a quick prayer or to attend a community gathering. We ate in a hole in the wall that was written up by The New York Times, revered, and yet never bothered having been renovated. The last time I went, a decade a ago, the tiles were a stark white vinyl to match white painted walls over buckling plaster. A ragged piece of white paper, cut into a square, and written in black permanent marker, “Cash Only,” is taped onto the cashier. A portrait of a yogi, spiritual leader with orange garb and a faux fro’ hangs alongside depictions of Hindu dieties. On the glass exhibition topped by a counter, there sits a laminated computer print-out that advertises a Healthy Dosa. I sometimes would order an appetizer of onion bhajia, or pakoras, fried, and battered onions. Think a hash brown made of alliums instead of a nightshade root.

All of the memories ran through my head. The drive, the serendipitous plan, the impulse ordering, the anticipation of tastes, and the cultural complexity that is second-nature to the native New Yorker. This time, the drive was so organized as to be documented via sign-up sheets, contracts, and clinical consideration. This time, I was sitting in the backseat of a messy car, two women in the front seat, determining how much those with eating disorders should be eating. I saw and heard their cognizance when the cell phone’s map application started dictating directions, detours, and traffic developments. I started tracking our route verbally, pointing out landmarks and flash backing to the times I went to stores.

The dietician’s famous icy blue, almost transparent eyes, contrasting with her dyed strawberry red hair, narrowed as I glanced her briefly making eye contact with me through the rearview mirror. Had I gone to this restaurant before, she asked? I had not. I had never entertained the idea of sitting down in any of the restaurants in this area. I was familiar with the area because I occasionally had walked the route before, or had seen it either as the passenger or diver of a car. This was not easy for me. In fact, I had anxiety the evening before, about having to complete an entree that may or may not be larger than what I would have had if I had just stayed at the house for lunch cooked by the chef who I credit for the majority of the reasons for why I chose this treatment facility.

I started to smell the aromas cooked up by the chef prior to leaving. I guessed she was using Adobo seasoning - the sodium-laden amalgamation of spices combined and used abundantly in Latin and South American cooking. She said that many spices were being used, but that the cuisine was off by some bodies of water. She made a Greek salad and protein concoction, either chicken or the vegetarian magical meat option, with tzatziki sauce and pita bread. In my anxiety, I had opted for snacks I did not necessarily wanted since we are supposed to choose our three snacks at the start of the day from a never-changing menu aside from the inventory of protein bar flavors and cereal we had. I never chose the cookies so the different Oreo flavors never concerned me; the same holds true for Pop Tarts. I chose the former variety of snacks because I thought they would provide me with more protein and fat versus carbohydrates which comprised the majority of what I would have for lunch.

I had trouble with the idea of eating dosa - the crepe cooked over a ghee - clarified butter-sealed cooktop. Crepes were either made of rice flour or rava - semolina flour. The former is cylindrical and lays latitudinally, the length of a small table, or it could be conical, standing longitudinally, its height equivalent to that of a pointy witch’s hat. The latter is porous, like a sponge or sourdough bread, and is folded in on itself to create a large square. I noticed they had yet another, rare, variety of dosa known as ragi. The batter consists of urad dal or lentils, and a combination of millet - an ancient grain- and idli - fermented rice, batter. This trifecta of ingredients though more caloric, also has more protein and unadulterated carbohydrates with its fiber in tact. I was overthinking everything, but it was still abiding by concept of healthy. I then asked the server a third time to confirm: Did this dosa choice come with the two chutneys like coconut and peanut chili, as well as the sambar or spiced vegetable broth? Did the dosa come with masala - the boiled and seasoned potato mash with onions cooked inside the crepe? He answered affirmatively to all of the above.

The dietician asked me what I would recommend, to explain what paneer - cheese - was and which was spicy. I forgot the specificities of the different varieties of a niche cuisine from the southern tip of India at the opposite end of the country from where my family hailed from. I did not identify with this region’s language, faith, culture, or cuisine. It was a popular fast-food, our outside option to eat when we were out and about without opportunity to cook. I tried my best to ascertain what would be better options than others. They seemed skeptical at my lack of knowledge, but then again, my mind was in overdrive and I had denied myself of the flavors I enjoyed for so long that my memory muscle had also been eaten up and used for energy in the absence of carbohydrates.

They asked if I ordered any drink to pair with my meal. I would, on occasion when I was much younger, entertain the idea of a Fanta or orange soda, swearing that the slender glass bottle in which it came and was sold at the old Queens haunt, had a more fresh, tangerine flavor and more mellow degree of carbonation. But for the most part, I drank water to ease the spice. They then asked if I ordered anything after the meal. There were dessert options on the menu - Indian sweets that I loved even more than the food. The sweets were confections that reflected my girlish persona. They were akin to an ambrosial nectar which holds particular significance in the Sikh faith. Known as Amrit, or holy water, that is sweetened with sugar, was provided to those baptized in the faith, although anyone can have it.

Growing up, on occasion, after dining, my parents and I would cater to my daydream of being in India, driving along dusty roads surrounded by storefronts with Sanskrit-originated writing. We would travel to a sweets shop and purchase rosewater-spiked orange spiraled deep-fried simple syrup that remained a viscous wet texture when still hot or crystallized more definitively when cooled. We would also entertain the idea of milk fudge, and cottage cheese-like U.F.Os that floated like survivor rafts on ebbing waves of sweet cream filled with rose essence, sprinkled with slivers of pistachio, and decorated lightly with saffron threads. The South Indian kitchen were not privy to these delicacies, despite the one we were dining at, in Long Island, New York, including a menu filled with other regional Indian fare.

I had seen a small metal bowl with bright orange carrot shreds, sweetened and cooked with golden raisins and khoya or thickened whole milk curd. On top was a dollop of either mango or some other ice cream. I did not entertain the idea of possibly swapping one of those options in for the regularly scheduled snack at the house. I didn’t think it fit. After all, I was intolerant to grapes, and possibly raisins, as well as mango. As it is, we were running late. I saw the dietician glance at her watch in between sniffles that came from the gunpowder spiced interior of her crepe that matched the minced tomatoes mixed in her choice of potato masala. I remarked about the red scattered constellation on her crepe. She glanced up on me mid-chew and I immediately regretted bringing attention to her eating. I remember the degree to which my blood pressure elevated as soon as anyone provided commentary about how I ate. She and the other dietician, Julia, were making sure not to draw attention to me eating.

I was full and did not want to continue eating the sambar like before when I had not eaten prior to the meal, however, I wanted to taste the sambar one last time - one last time before I left from residential. I wanted to prove to myself that one more spoonful of sambar was what I needed to heal, to move on, to know that I did not have to be directed to have more but that I could have more. And just like weight gain is less adding on as opposed to restoring, I was not having more but instead was having what was right in front of me.

The visiting dietician then spooned up more and swallowed it with abandon, in an attempt that I believe was to benefit me. I awkwardly hugged the dietician and thanked her profusely. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I felt like I was on a high, empowered, entertaining the idea of purchasing a snack at Starbucks, and then thinking better of it. I was in disbelief that I did it. I knew that if my parents were there, they would be expecting certain things, like finishing the entire meal. And yet I wanted them to have witnessed the feat.

I ate the dosa with abandon. I ate with ease, with hunger, and with appetite. I didn't feel immediate regret afterward, and though my stomach’s gastric juices felt more acidic than ever before, I felt anxiety creep in later that evening. Instead of me thinking I ate more than what I would have, I began thinking I may have eaten less and that frightened me. I did not want to go backwards. I felt full, a bit uncomfortably so, but nevertheless, it felt warranted. This surprised me. It surprised me how keenly aware I was about my health. It delighted me still when my father said that I would eat a vat, or something like it, of sambar, laughing with glee. It made my mom smile, my therapist too, and I felt an elation measured in equal amounts with emotional overdrive.

Why had I eaten that much before? Was it due to disordered eating when I would not be hyperaware about the contents of food, honored cravings, but also restricted, saved calories for later, and was extremely active? Was it that my body truly needed that amount? Could I do it now? Did I want to now that I was eatening balanced throughout the day? The final question struck me with a dose of reality. That was the truth. I fed my body as it should be. Starvation mode never had to be keyed up. I was living. I was liberated then and I am now. I am free.