Inside the Belly of My Beast

Where my sorrow came home to feast

Several Saturdays ago, my stomach was on the fritz, and my entire body was shaking. The evening was settling in, and I needed to feed my gut with what it was craving: fast-food pizza. My stomach was growling because I hadn't called in a delivery order for that greasy deep-pan dish. Beautiful slow-mo commercials cycled through my mind, featuring the creamy white sauce, firm yet soft crust, and the well-spread toppings of chicken, spinach, garlic, and jalapeno peppers. I frequently order fast-food pizza, and this habit began in the COVID-19 lockdowns of 2020. When I say 'frequently,' I mean that I used to buy a shit ton of pizza. Up until a few weeks ago, I would have caved in for that hit of serotonin; the sweet, gluten bliss that travels from my tummy deep into my brain. But this time around, I said no.

Instead, I made herbal tea and crashed on my couch to watch a movie. My stomach was playing mind games with me but my heart was telling me to stick it out. I knew that I could go one night without giving in to my desire for fast food and I was right. I felt strong urges up until the moment I drifted off to sleep. I slept like a baby throughout the night, and when I woke up the next morning, I had no symptoms of life-threatening hunger. It was then I knew that I had to consume my food with thoughtfulness. I have had less internal conflict with cravings for this greasy indulgence since that decision. My urges have not disappeared and most likely never will. Instead, these urges have developed into an earnest interest in how I can connect on a deeper level with the food I consume. As a result, I am more aware and connected with the food I eat than ever before.

This journal entry is not about body shaming, diet shaming, or convincing you to control your diet. Fuck that noise. I don't need a diet shoved into my face from an advertising company to be happy about the food I consume and the body I strive to take care of. What works for me will not directly work for you. My bodily fitness will be different from yours. Hopefully, you will have a better understanding of yourself and your needs to connect with food after seeing how I think about my eating habits. Maybe a conflict I am going through is closely related to what you are going through too.

This is a journal entry where I speak my thoughts with words and where I detail my commitment to those thoughts with action. I am learning what I have learned through the relationships I have; a community established through love, trust, and much tension. Love, trust, and tension must be shared, much like food. I realize this now, so I am going to share how I feel about food around me, how food I have consumed has impacted me, and how food has played in the relationships I hold.

I had to share with you this awkward yet jovial pop classic. Anyways…

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I remember the checklist I had when I was co-parenting my four younger siblings during my preteen years. My parents would put on their matching outfits, leave for their night shifts at the local juvenile detention facility, and I would take over as the “man of the house” from there. The checklist was standard: lock the doors, entertain the children, clean the house, take care of the dogs, feed the siblings, bathe them, make sure they brush their teeth, turn on some movies, and send the kids to bed. At that time, my siblings ranged from one to nine years old. Those evenings were absorbing, chaotic, fun, and exhausting.

My siblings and I democratically elected the movies we would watch together. I would make sure video game rules were enforced. I refereed physical fights and arguments between children. I was the judge, jury, and... executioner?? Nah, that doesn't sound right. I was the caretaker, the tone-setter, and most importantly, a big brother. It was during this time I learned what it means to be a parent and what it means to be responsible for someone (or something) besides just yourself. I was a pretty solid parent for a preteen. Despite my MVP-level co-parenting skills, I always struggled with making meals for the family.

I lacked an imagination for the types of meals I could craft, mostly because of the inventory that was accessible to me. Food is expensive, especially for a family of five rapidly growing children. Our pantry was stuffed with canned meats, canned vegetables, sugary cereals, and a gluttonous amount of snacks. My parents worked very hard to ensure none of my siblings went hungry, and they provided plenty of options for the five different diet preferences. Our lack of nutrition was made up for by our endless supply of processed options. What was I going to feed the kids tonight, boxed macaroni and cheese with sliced hot dogs mixed in or Hamburger Helper in a box (please, anything but the lasagna)?

Though our pantry seemed endless, our stock was repetitive, and I quickly became desensitized to the meals I was eating. I could only eat instant ramen for so many years before the thought of eating another one would make me throw up. We had a spice rack in the kitchen, but I never thought of opening my taste palette outside of garlic, salt, and pepper. Add in my service-oriented mind that made everything feel like a chore, food became fuel. Meal prep wasn't something to enjoy, experiment, or even experience. I would stand around my kitchen like I would stand around my car when I wait at the gas pump. I'd cross my arms, lean against my counter, and watch the numbers on my oven cycle through the digits. Thus began my long-term detachment with food.

By the time I got to college, I was fully capable of making my own meals, and the meals were far from impressive. I remember microwaving canned Hormel chili in the dorms my freshman year in college to make a Frito Pie (what kind of name is that? Frito Pie?), and my neighbor walked over to accuse me of eating "poor people food." I asked him what poor people's food consisted of, and he proceeded to list every single product in my family's pantry. I was angry, but I didn't have the political or social terms to retort the way I wanted to at that time. So I told him to go fuck himself. That was the last time I ever made canned Hormel chili and Frito Pie.

My diet, which was already pretty shabby, had taken a total nosedive in a college environment of full-time classes, multiple part-time jobs, volunteer initiatives to beef up my resume, and late-night socials with friends. Flying by the seat of my pants meant I didn't have time to think about what I wanted to eat, let alone make a meal. These were the days where fast food was consumed for all three meals, or I would get by with only eating one meal. I remember eating at the Panda Express that opened next to my college radio station for five straight days, and the sickness I felt in my stomach by Friday still makes me gag to this day. I think I flushed away my soul that weekend because my brain, my body, and my toilet were all utterly destroyed. Why did I do that to myself? Well, I worried myself into a sense of urgency every day of my life.

My high-strung, type-A personality, which many of you know, has been slowly transforming over the years because, ya know, healthy life habits are established through incremental life changes sustained over time. When I became a "working professional," my life changed, and I had to make my own lunches and come home to my dinner. I once again encountered the gas station urge to stand by in my kitchen while I watched the numbers countdown on the microwave. This time, the pilot light flickered in my brain. I knew this diet was coming at a great cost to my health, and I had a choice to do something about it. For the next two to three years, I learned very basic but necessary ways to cook raw meat, make my own pizza, experiment with store-bought pasta dishes, and cook essentials like rice.

Through my first baby steps in the kitchen, I began to unpack how my food experience was mostly individual. I didn't spend enough time in my youth with my Montes side of the family to learn my grandparents' recipes for enchiladas, tamales, and frijoles. My friends from other countries all made delicious meals, and it was because of their relationships with their families. I would eat these well-crafted and purposeful meals with a full stomach but an empty heart; I had individualized the cooking process with my superhero child mindset. Relationships are a driving factor for many of the things we learn in life, and the lack of deep relationships (and time) with my older family members meant I was starting from scratch with my food identity. The very next Christmas after I learned this, I asked my mother for index cards with every handwritten recipe she knew from her family.

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, my diet has been largely impulsive and a crutch for my depressive thoughts. Instead of connecting with somebody else, I would eat fast food and remain isolated with the videos on my screen. I had reached a standstill in my growth as a chef and my recipes because I was not sharing what I was learning with others. I would make excuses not to set enough time to properly make a meal for myself, let alone with somebody else I cared about. When you are in the belly of the beast, feeding your hunger can only send you further into darkness.

Light thwarts darkness, and lightness comes from community. My roommate, Chad, shares their food with me. My downstairs roommate, JC, can basically craft anything he puts his heart in. My partner, Taylor, can whip up a tasty, veggie-focused meal with ease. Every single one of them loves sharing their meals, and they are always trying to make me eat their food. It can be annoying sometimes, but it leaves me feeling mostly inspired. Their affectionate connection with food keeps me grounded at times when I want to be cold and distant.

Their inspiration has translated into a year of experimentation, not only with the recipes I make but also in how I find content and purpose in the food I eat and with my process in the kitchen. Even when I make a bad meal, I should still feel joy with how I made it. Most importantly, I want to feel joy in sharing a meal I made with people I love and care deeply about. Part of my experimentation has been my recent jump to intermittent fasting, and I hold myself to consuming food within an eight-hour window every day. The point of this purposeful timetable isn't to starve myself but to allow my stomach and my mind space to relish what I eat the day of and visualize what I want to eat the next day. This space allows me to challenge myself with a new sushi roll recipe or to make sure I map out an hour or two in my afternoon if I want to make dinner.

Life is a circle that has a funny way of rhyming or sometimes repeating itself. Through these moments of clarity about food and its relationship to me and the ones I love, I am constantly reminded that while I am slowly growing into a person I desire to be, I am still humbled by my many imperfections and daily struggles. Life becomes easier, and I become more authentic when I accept the chaos that exists around me and within me. I will never be in total control of my body's health and diet, so I have to be grateful for the agency and lifestyle I currently possess. I, like almost everybody else I know, will go through changes for better or worse, and that will impact my diet or my physical and mental health. However, if I have learned anything about myself over the years, it is that I always rise to the moment to set course for a new direction when my life needs to change. This instinct is what led me to make juicy yet firm spicy yellowtail sushi rolls for me and my friends. If you told me I would be making sushi in my kitchen years ago, I would have laughed at you. My gut is the one that is laughing now.

“Try to understand that when I can, I will.”