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’d already become interested in “cooking” by then (my specialties being toasties, paninis, and other forms of hot and cold sandwiches), but not even melted cheese and deli meats could do it for me anymore. 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. As I ate, the butter coating my tongue, I felt content for the first time in two months, the meatiness of the mushrooms and the sourness of the kimchi like a promise that life wasn’t so awful after all, that there was still so much to savour..