Snacks

How to snack yourself back to life.

A very warm welcome to the new subscribers who signed up to my newsletter during my maternity leave and art/content-producing hiatus. I’m glad that I’ve not been lost and forgotten to the algorithm. You warm my heart!

First: this is not necessarily a content warning, but I did want to say that I’ll be discussing food and eating. I want to be clear that I will NOT be discussing weight, dieting or restrictive eating.

My last Cup O’ Soup entry was  almost 4 months ago. In that elapsed time I’ve been flabbergasted by the actual reality of raising a baby, who is at the time of writing this, 5 months old. Everyone says it’s hard and so I knew it would be hard, but for whatever reason I didn’t think it would be this hard. In moments of weakness, of which there have been many, I would say to Gabe “I don’t think I can do this anymore” until he expressed to me that he didn’t like it: it was a scary thing to hear. So, we came up with a code word that I could say when I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore. The code word was popcorn. I would text it or say it almost every day, until it was everyday, and then multiple times a day. I stopped using the code word when I realized I wanted to say it at almost all times, like a building chorus of kernels frantically popping over a hot flame.

(If you’ve read my previous entries speaking of infertility and IVF, you know how much intention we put into having a baby, and the experience has been devastatingly difficult nonetheless. Which is only driving the point home even harder: no one should be forced to have an unwanted child. Abortion needs to be legal and accessible for all)

I would describe my existence in the past 5 months as that of a subhuman: barely slept or showered, under socialized, living out of boxes while we’ve been moving, eating whatever’s around, very often in tears. Some things will show signs of improvement while other things will regress. Everything is subject to change at any given moment, and yet everyday is more or less the same thing on repeat.

You may know from reading My Tale of Cookery that years of infertility followed by a pregnancy changed my relationship with food. Cooking, and my sense of culinary wonderment lost its place in my life, and I learned to be accepting of that, which was huge because I seem to have built my whole art practice around food. When the baby came I discovered a whole new level of ambivalence towards what I ate. My credentials for a good meal were: convenience, speed of getting and of eating, edible with one hand, didn’t need to be hot to be good, and if at all possible: able to elicit feelings of comfort or excitement.

We would start off the day with the rising of our little babe at around 6:00 am with coffee and cakey, underwhelming grocery store muffins from those hard, crinkly plastic cases. Gabe would pack lunches of cold cut sandwiches on whole wheat sandwich bread slathered with mustard and mayo, along with a yogurt cup, a granola bar and an apple. We kept chopped up cheese and crackers around, and sometimes veggies and dip. Once we got through our stock of freezer meals there was a lot of take out. Three times a week Gabe would make dinner from a meal kit delivery service; these were actually some of the healthier and more luxurious meals we’d have. We’d usually take turns eating and soothing our colicky baby and often only get to dinner once it was cold. 

The baby didn’t like going out, but I still made daily attempts; usually towards the destination of some kind of treat like a fancy coffee and pastry, or a warm little McDonalds cheeseburger I could tuck into my pocket and eat while stroller pushing. These attempts often failed and ended with both mom and baby in tears. My most dependable treat ritual once the weather turned to spring was to take a slow and quiet “please don’t wake up” walk with baby in the carrier to the corner store for a can of Coke. I’d crack it open behind me to muffle the sound and drink it slowly and deliberately, savoring the fresh air, blossoms, sunshine and sweet slumbering babe. Taking him out became so challenging that I found myself crying to Gabe that I couldn’t even go to the store for a Coke… so he bought me a case (the first case of pop I’d ever had in my own home). I’d try to keep up the ritual while walking around the block or up and down the driveway. 

(A quick and serious shoutout to friends and neighbours who came to visit, tried to get me out for a walk, or delivered treats even if I had to suddenly bail or kick you out of my house)

Over the course of moving to our new home, food became an afterthought. I was eating microwavable freezer entrees and very little fruits and vegetables. A McDonald’s very close to our new place lured me in on the regular with a mobile ordering app and stroller accessible automated doors. Some days I’d have a handful of triscuits for lunch, some days I’d skip lunch altogether. One of the last things I fed myself before fully realizing that this was an undeniable food rut was a whole pack of marinara meatball hot pockets. 

I place no moral judgment on these foods. I know that when I need them they’re always there for me, and they aren't eaten without enjoyment. I will forever and always eat and love fast food and appreciate its place in my life, and in the lives of many. But combined with postpartum isolation, lack of self care, and the monotony of caring for an infant, what I was eating seemed to be a metaphor for my limitations and loneliness. With so little frivolity in this season of my life, what I was eating was making me sad. I missed the experience of loving food, and really, of living a full life.

And then I remembered myself. I know snacks. I’ve built an art practice out of them. I’ve made still life artworks of crackers, grocery deli platters, tinned fish, chips, popcorn, bonbons, pickles, olives, cheese, twinkies etc. In 2013 I made “midnight snack” plates for a crowd at Feast in the East. I created a snack-heavy walking and eating tour for rural Ontario. In my art school days I made a beaded curtain out of sweet gherkins and pickled onions (art!). I once delivered midnight snacks on order by bicycle. I love to snack, and I’d forgotten about this way of eating that’s nourishing and fanciful without the cooking.

I started out super simple with a hard boiled egg and fruits scattered on a plate. This humble snack spread somehow in an instant vanquished the goblin that had taken over my form. I wanted more. I decided this was a doable and daily goal towards my own sense of well being. I would snack myself back to life. 

As it happens, we moved in across the street from a Saturday morning farmers market. With the exception of late summer peach, tomato and corn hauls, I’ve never been a big farmers market stan. Whatever is most convenient and affordable has been good for me, and I don’t love the crowds. But since it’s right there and the baby has us up at the crack of dawn anyways, I have to say it’s been an encouraging ritual to incorporate into my snack quest. It just feels so goddamn wholesome and tastes so damn ripe and fresh. Mostly, it inspires me to love food again.

Because I’ve one-handedly eked out this entry one sentence at a time on my phone in stolen moments during nursing sessions and cuddly baby naps, it’s taken me more than a month to get to this paragraph, and my son is now 6 months old. He’s transforming before my eyes and therefore so is my whole world. We’re getting out a bit more and having a lot more fun. I’m feeling a little less like someone who is on fire, and more like a regular person who has a little baby companion. Making myself food again has undoubtedly had its hand in humanizing me, and assuaging my postpartum summertime fomo with stonefruits, basil, margaritas, guacamole, balcony wine, and nuked pogos because I keep it real. Snacking has even been my gateway to start doing some light cooking again, which feels absolutely epic, even when I’m chopping vegetables on the nursery floor, or prepping a meal in a series of 5 minute stints throughout the course of the day. I’ve mastered prepping a chili after the baby’s gone to bed, and swiftly tossing everything in the slow cooker in the morning while singing songs to the baby to make him laugh and not cry. This is the kind of mundane daily life shit that earns people the title of “super mom.”

I hope I am not oversimplifying the incredibly complex and challenging road to postpartum wellness. No amount of cute snacks can replace actual mental health care such as finding ways to be open about how you’re feeling with your loved ones, counseling, medication, support groups, etc. I would not be able to find some healing properties in snacks without such supports in place. This is all just to say that sometimes a snack is a meal, and sometimes a meal is everything.

My next goal is to wash my face everyday. And then maybe make some art again wink wink.

Thank you for reading! My apologies for bad grammar or writing: it’s not the best doing this on a phone. For anyone interested: I started an IG account to chronicle my snacks. It’s just for fun; Instagram is dying anyways. Some upcoming news: I’m still not prepared to re-open my online shop, but I’ll be tabling at the Hard Feelings Mental Health Pop Up Market in Christie Pits on Saturday September 10th from 12 - 5. Just prints this time, and a chance to see your beautiful faces. My first day out in a long time! 

I’m going to be shameless in saying that if you enjoyed this newsletter or wish to support me for whatever reason, your Cup of Coffee contributions are greatly appreciated as I navigate self-employment maternity leave without an income. THANK YOU!