Eggplant & Silverbeet

From food fear to food prayer

Part One: Theory

For most of my life, I have been afraid of food.

‘Fear’ feels like the most appropriate framing here. It manages to encompass the myriad manifestations of my relationship with food without delimiting it to pathology.

To fear food is to see it as an existential threat. It is to mark food off as 'other' and 'uninvited'. To fear food is to recognise the permeability of the boundary set by the body, and to patrol its borders diligently. From general sensory dislike to outright restriction to apathy to obsession, my own food fears have come in many forms, and arisen for many different reasons; not all of them necessarily 'bad' or 'unhealthy'. Just fearful.

There is an assumption that food restrictions and aversions are self-destructive. While this ostensibly appears to be so (and in some cases, self-destruction might even be a deliberate aim), it nonetheless may be more productive to view these behaviours as self-protective. Specifically, food restriction and aversion serve to protect an individual's sense-of-self against threats of internal psychic collapse. 'Maladaptive' behaviours are experienced as a 'tangible' means of maintaining and reinforcing the ego. While this tangibility is ultimately illusionary, for the inner stability of the psyche, it is felt to be very much real and effective. Underlying any manifestation of food fear is a simple reality: 'My body is the one thing I can control'.

While food fears and food rules are functionally a means of exercising an artificial sense of control over a life that is experience as chaotic and hostile, the result is an inner world that is inhibited by compulsions and aversions.

My own relationship with food has been punctuated by fear from a young age, emerging initially from the sensory processing differences associated with neurodiversity. In my experience, meeting sensory needs is more than a preference, and it can be critical to functioning. A failure to provide environmental adaptions may be experienced as traumatic, and have life-long consequences. Particularities around the appearance, smell, texture and taste of certain foods that begin as sensory needs can quickly develop into restriction or avoidance if these needs are not met or if the only approach taken is to 'push through' the discomfort.

This all intersects neatly with diet culture and the push towards increased convenience, both of which create limitations on the expectations around the way we create and consume food. 'Healthy eating', from an neurodiverse perspective, can look a lot like 'uncomfortable eating'… Which can look a lot like ‘not eating’. Something as simple as a plain vegetable can be torturous if the specific texture or flavour or appearance is not right. Simultaneously, the time and energy demands of full-time work leave little capacity for accommodating sensory requirements; simple food is simply easier to make. Fad ideas about 'bad' foods combined with either a lack of cooking skills or a lack of time to execute those skills can create a sensory hell.

While I eventually 'grew out' of my ‘picky eating’, the foundations of food fear remained, and ultimately reappeared in my adolescence and into adulthood. These early experiences informed later attempts to control my environment through controlling what I consumed - both in the context of body image (seeking social acceptance) and chronic illness (seeking 'cure'). In each case, even after all notable or concerning restrictive behaviours had ceased, the underlying need to stabilise the self through external means persisted, and thus the same problems re-emerged in different forms.

The overarching theme here is that my ever-shifting-but-ever-so-slightly-ever-present fear of food has been a means of protecting myself. It is only by giving grace to this self-defensive mechanism that I can begin to break the cycle.

Three immediate goals present themselves to me:

1. I want to expand the possibilities of food in my life.

2. I want to welcome the flavours and textures I once feared or avoided.

3. I want to be more forgiving of that which sustains me.

In order to achieve these goals, I will need to begin with my most foundational food fears, and the unmet needs that they represent. I want to invite my child-self to be adventurous, to take a chance on something that was once difficult for us. I want that child to feel that their desires and preferences and needs are being addressed. Overall, I want to create and consume with that version of me in mind.

I thought a good place to start would be with eggplant and silverbeet, two vegetables I have avoided all my life…

We used to grow silverbeet in our garden when I was young. It's a hardy plant, well suited to the Australian climate. Consequently, there was always a bountiful backyard harvest.

Unfortunately, I also grew up during the peak of The Biggest Loser, and the associated cultural horror of fat and food pleasure. Oil, sugar, salt; time, energy, skill complexity; anything that might make a meal tasty was a rarity in our kitchen. The most care the poor silverbeet saw was a quick trip to the wok. Fresh served, straight out of our own garden. And disgusting to my juvenile tastes.

As for the eggplant - like many neurodiverse individuals - my main gripe is the texture. The humble aubergine’s main fault of character is that it possesses a density that can only be described as 'squeaky'.

However, as I was picking out something for dinner recently, I had a moment of clarity: these two vegetables, which I have so loathed, would pair perfectly with the barbecue pork I had already planned out. For a brief and beautiful moment, the balance of flavours just slotted into place in my mind.

I have always hated eggplant. I have always hated silverbeet. Both are bottom-tier vegetables for me. But it is also my position that any food can be delicious if only you know how to cook it. And this is an approach I am (begrudgingly) attempting to integrate into my grocery rounds.

So I steeled my spirit against my long-held reservations, cooled my fears, and placed the vegetables in my cart.

I placed my faith in food.

Part Two: Practice

While doing some background research for this project, I came across a tiny text by Delia Smith called "Journey into Prayer" in which the writer uses the word "simplicity" to describe prayer. This resonated deeply with my own rudimentary forays into devotion, as it has always been in the most everyday of places and actions that I have come to encounter holy presence.

Just as simple meals are often the most beloved (chicken noodle soup when sick, a lazy midweek mac and cheese, Friday night fish and chips), simple prayer is often the most spiritually penetrating. Simplicity is particularly powerful, I think, because it brokers a balance between repetition and intuition. As we go through the motions – over and over – action becomes second nature; it is transformed into the work of spirit.

This is a simple meal. This is something I'd make on a busy weeknight without a second thought (aside from side-eyeing the price of some of the ingredients). There's not much flair to it, not even finesse. It is what it is. It does the trick.

Before We Begin: Kitchen Rules

• Listen to the food.

• Smell it, taste it, be playful with it.

• Give it all your attention.

• No music, no background entertainment, no deliberate distraction.*

• Set aside the drive to success. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, try again.

• And try again.

• And try again.

• And try again.

*The hustle and bustle of everyday life is not a distraction, it is a part of the experience. Friends and family and housemates and pets and the courier at the door and the smoke alarm going off are unavoidable, and in many ways, integral elements to cooking… More so than in any other creative practice. Don't get lost in the atmosphere, but don’t shut it out either. Let it wash over you. Weave it into that which you make with your hands. This too is an ingredient.

First Element: Barbecue Pork

• For this recipe, I used pork loin chops (500-600g), though any meat or plant-based alternative will do.* I like this meat cut because it’s similar to ribs, without paying for bones.

• The trick to a good barbecue marinade is to buy the BBQ sauce that's just one step above home-brand. Not the cheapest, not the most expensive. Then mix in a good couple of cloves worth of crushed garlic (I use the jarred stuff for convenience), half that in ginger, and some kind of hot sauce in whatever ratio the day calls for.

• Coat meat entirely and let sit in the fridge for however long desired. The length of time it takes to prepare the other ingredients should be enough.

• Fry for around 10 minutes, or bake for 20. Turn as needed. Slice into the meat to check the colour isn't too pink and the texture isn't too dry.

*For plant-based cooking, I find it's better to fry the meat alternatives first, as they need more attention to establish the right texture. Marinades often just end up burning to the pan. I like jackfruit with this sauce though it ends up with more of a pulled pork vibe (really good as a burger or wrap but that's a whole different meal).

Second Element: Caramelised Silverbeet

When in doubt: oil and salt.

• Preheat oven. If you want. I usually forget. It should ideally be at 160°C for caramelisation but to be honest I've almost only ever set my oven to 180°C. Maybe higher, never less. This is mostly because I genuinely enjoy a bit of a burnt taste, so don't take it as advice.

• Slice the silverbeet (one bunch) right down the centre of the stem. Then across a few times. The very ends - where stem meets soil - should be discarded. Keep the rest.

• Precook silverbeet by either boiling or microwaving; dry off thoroughly.

• When in doubt: oil and salt. Coat the silverbeet in oil. Lather it. Drown it. Use your hands. Work it into all the grooves and veins. This leaf was once part of a living thing. It is still a living thing. Treat it lovingly.

• Lay the leaves out flat on an oven tray, evenly spaced, and salt all over with a shaker. Add just a tiny sprinkle of (preferably brown) sugar, enough to aid in caramelisation but not so much it drowns out the salt.

• Bake until browned, or slightly burned (sugar bitters at temperatures above 180°C). Maybe 20 minutes? 40? Take this as a meditative opportunity and sit and stare at the oven until it seems ready and figure it out for me.

Third Element: Glazed Eggplant

• Slice the eggplant (2-4, depending on size) as you would a mango, halved or quartered lengthwise then cubed inside. Do not flay the plant; let it keep its shape. The skin should be left on as it maintains the form, and with it captures and compounds texture and flavour.

• Place the pieces of eggplant skin-down in about an inch of water in a heatproof dish, then microwave until softened.* Anywhere from 2 to 5 minutes should do it. A similar (maybe even better) effect could be achieved by simmering in a pan with a lid.

• I wanted to connect the flavours of the elements of this meal while maintaining simplicity, allowing the inner qualities of the vegetables to shine. So all I used for the eggplant was a little garlic, alongside oil (just a little this time) and salt, with just a drizzle of honey and soy sauce.**

• Bake for 20-30 minutes.

*I read somewhere, afterwards, that you are supposed to salt the eggplant first and let it sit to draw out impurities (bitterness, skin hardness, excess moisture). I did not do this. Actually, I did the opposite. Through the laws of osmosis placing the eggplant in water would draw more fluid in, rather than spitting it out. But there is no 'wrong' approach here; flavour can be achieved by many means. What is important is that this technique softened the skin and slightly precooked the vegetable so it would bake better later. A success in my books.

**Afterwards, I tried making something with eggplant again. I used the salting technique and was delighted by the beads of sweat that formed on the surface of the plant. However, as I was making a glaze, I got a bit overzealous with the lemon (once you start squeezing out the juice it's so hard to stop at just a squidge...), which ended up drowning out any other flavour or texture. It turned out like a strange warm lemonade fruit. Not inedible but not exactly good either.

Final touches: To Serve

• In my opinion, the most important part of transforming 'ingredients' into a 'meal' is the drinks and little sides and garnishes and small treats and desserts that are served with it.

• I went with: blueberry kombucha (the vinegary tang perfectly balances out the other flavours), fig to serve (for freshness. fig is so sweet and luxurious that you only need half a fruit per plate), and tahini dates as desert (slice just a few Medjool dates through the heart, pit, and fill the cavity with tahini).

Part Three: Alchemy

As I am preparing food, I often think about how the most simple, staple techniques have all been created by someone, somewhere, sometime. Perfected and passed down.

Some people are very particular about having the whole kitchen to themselves while they are cooking. But really, we never cook alone. We are always intertwined with whoever came before us, whether that be the first human to grind flour, someone's grandmother, or a digital food blogger delivering their entire life story via recipe (this category may be me, lowkey).

There is a practicality to the passing on of wisdom, but there is also a rituality. Like a secret family recipe that takes on a magical character that forgoes objectivity; it's not that the particular mixture and balance of flavours of well-loved cultural or familial meals are somehow chemically superior, it’s that they hold the essence of a home, a lineage, a shared humanity. It feels natural that making a meal should be meditative; cooking acts as a conduit between history and the here-and-now.

Food suddenly feels far less intimidating when I consider the generations of farmers who have cultivated a crop to suit human tastes, the living history contained in the physicality of creating something, and the act of love that is to share in a meal. When I use a marinade, or sauté, or douse my onions in water to keep the tears at bay, I am connected to all the people of the past who have held and refined this knowledge.

I am less inclined to reject a flavour or texture or mixture when I remember that these specific flavours and textures and mixtures are not merely random, but designed. They have come into being through a fusion of luck/fate, the desiring-forces of natural selection, the cosmic tension between chaos and perfection, and, of course, through the overarching intervention of the human will. God’s work is never done, and we all have a part to play in this world's ever-unfolding Creation.

Through a unity of action and intention, a vegetable I had always experienced as tough and bitter was suddenly juicy and sweet, caramelised and soft inside. Through the power of imagination, a plant I had avoided for its 'squeaky' texture became a sponge for flavour. It was the capacity to envision something greater that allowed me to walk outside the boundaries of my fears, and just create.

Part Four: Prayer

In the making of this meal, as I sat with my dogeared food fears, I was reminded - as I often am - of my very first experience with theological guidance. I was maybe 17. At that point, I was an atheist, or an agnostic at most. My concept of God didn't go much further than 'magical guy in the sky'. It was rudimentary. It was weak.

I received this guidance at one of the meetings for the kind-of-creepy definitely-a-bit-culty Pentecostal-megachurch-youth-group that I went to simply because my closest friend at the time did. Someone in the group had asked our leader, "If Our God is a loving God, why does the bible tell us to Fear Him?" This was a question I had long held, a question that was, at the time, foundational to my rejection of (Abrahamic-centric) religion. Our youth leader said simply, “In the face of God's immensity, awe looks a lot like fear.” All-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving; to fear God is to be struck down by Its majesty. It is to surrender entirely.

To have Faith, true Faith, requires submission to the Will of God. Or to Fate, or Nature, or Nothing, or whatever other Higher Power.

It occurs to me that the space between my fear of food and my conviction that food is something to be held as holy can only be forded by Faith. To (re)build my relationship with food, I must surrender to it. I must stop using it as a means of reinforcing my sense of self and identity. The process of overcoming my food fear requires me to cede the ego to something greater.

Coming to faith is a lot like falling in love in this way. You have to be willing to let down your defenses. You have to be willing to let the tide take you over. Mitski's 'Heat Lightning' comes to mind as a song/poem/prayer that explores this. On the surface, heat lightning is about insomnia; the protesting mind attempting to override the body's needs. But on another level, it is about the human desire for control, up against the inevitability of release. It's a song that could be about falling in love; it's a song that could be about coming to faith.

"And there's nothing I can do
Not much I can change
So, I give it up to you
I hope that's okay
There's nothing I can do
Not much I can change
I give it up to you, I surrender"

Mitski here speaks of trust, but also, of awe. The chorus of this song speaks to the hidden peace of being aware of your own powerlessness, of allowing yourself to revel in it. To know something greater is here, will be here, has been here all along… Is to be engulfed. Whether that be by Love or God or the unstoppable forces of Nature, the only path forward is surrender.

"Heat lightning
Watch it from my doorstep
Sleeping eyelid of the sky
Flutters in a dream
Well, I've held on
But feel a storm approaching
Trees are swaying in the wind like sea anemones"

Heat lightning is a silent phenomenon: a storm that is still so far off that the accompanying thunder never reaches the earth. All that is left by the time the strike hits the horizon is a flash. Like a distant thought, the "Sleeping eyelid of the sky" calls forth to a future that can be glimpsed but cannot be controlled, cannot be contained.

Mitski describes this album as "love songs about real relationships that are not power struggles to be won or lost," which makes me think of the definition of love that Bell Hooks uses: "the will to extend oneself for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth." This definition, taken from psychiatrist M. Scott Peck, emphasises that love is an action, an action of addition. Falling in love, and similarly so coming to faith, is expansive; it opens up new worlds. The surrender in 'Heat Lightning' does not equate to a loss, because it does not take anything from its subject. It is a letting down of the borders and barriers of the ego in order to reach across for the hand of another. An opening and an offering.

To surrender is to allow yourself to be transformed, and equally, to come home.