When Foodie Met Iffy

As I have mentioned on many occasion, I have a thing for Anthony Bourdain. Larry is fully aware that I would leave him for Anthony Bourdain, should the opportunity present itself. It's strange: I'm not really an "older man" kind of gal, but there's a hipness, a realness, a damn fine sexiness about the man.

I'm sorry, I need to mop up this puddle of drool down the front of my shirt.

Now that I'm commuting to work, I've got nearly two hours in my day of uninterrupted me time. Since checking my email or reading the internet while driving is generally frowned upon (in fact, now recently illegal in MA), I could get back into my habit of listening to NPR in the mornings. Instead, I'm taking the audiobook route. I just finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. I know, late to the game on that whole series. (Sidebar: it's incredible - a slowly building, unsettling climax that makes your jaw drop.) I'd already read Kitchen Confidential, so I figured Medium Raw was sure to be a great read with Mr. Bourdain himself narrating again.

Medium Raw IS a great read/listen. This morning, I felt almost dirty listening to Tony describe his favorite bowl of Hanoi pho in his chapter about food porn, aptly titled "Lust." And as I listened to the opening chapter [SPOILER ALERT] where he describes his practically godless experience consuming ortolan [/SPOILER ALERT]- I felt almost ashamed listening to it... and instantly jealous.

So, knock me over with a feather as I'm bawling last night after I finished chapter 13, "Dancing." I was listening to it over dinner since Larry was at a lodge meeting. Bourdain devotes an entire chapter to his 2.5 year old daughter and why he wanted to be a father.

Fuck, I can't even listen to an audiobook in an entirely non-infertility related category, read by one of my celebrity crushes no less, without being reminded of this profound lack in my life. Thank you infertility, for managing to crash yet another "I thought this was a safe area of my life" parties.

Not to spoil the whole chapter, but Bourdain speaks of how he practically worships his little girl: she's his whole world, and rightfully so. From prying Play-Do from under his fingernails to dancing without a care, to ditching the leather motorcycle jacket for a pair of Dockers khakis - Bourdain leaves for his daughter a loving, razor-edged legacy of wit and wisdom, and ultimately, a love letter of empowerment.

He does spend a good bit of the chapter talking about his desire for fatherhood. After his 2006 ordeal in Beirut, where he and the crew of No Reservations was stranded due to nothing short of a war, Bourdain came back to the US and pretty much got off the plane, went home, and made a baby. Seriously. This isn't so much paraphrasing as it is nearly verbatim from the book.

Lately, I have been way down on myself. There's been some flutter of varying pregnancy-related announcements again in my life, so once again I feel like the last kid picked for the team. I've been wrestling with the idea of getting a second opinion, and worrying that depending on what Doc #2 could say, might change all of our plans. This past weekend I had to scurry home suddenly after a lunch date with a friend. After we parted, I continued to browse the little shops all over Salem's downtown, when I was suddenly hit with an overwhelming sadness and ache.

I want a little kid to dress up for Halloween, too.

I nearly burst into tears in the middle of a confectioner shop. FFS, I was surrounded by chocolate and yet I nearly started to cry. To add insult to injury: the fastest way home is right past a boutique maternity wear shop.

As I walked briskly home, I watched that same movie reel play out in my head that I fear sadly, will never play on any major screens in my actual life: a passionate love scene, a nervous glance at a watch, coming out of the bathroom with a positive test, our faces glowing, eyes glistening, clever announcements to family and friends, three seasons of bliss and preparation, and the climax of the film: a slap, a baby crying, tears and laughter and gazing adoringly into the eyes of the future.

Roll credits.

When I saw Larry that afternoon, I told him how down I was. I told him, "I just want to make you a daddy." He hugged me, I cried, and he assured me that we'll get there.

So last night, when I thought I could get just an hour of non-infertility related headspace, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I was eating dinner at the time and I actually lost my appetite.

It was the moment where foodie met iffy.

I fucking love food. Probably a little too much, as reflected in my BMI. Food is a highly sensual experience. Flavors may last only a few minutes on the palate, but forever in the dark recesses of our memory. Flavor, much like aroma, marry themselves to very acute, precise memories and when recalled, unleash such a hunger of both physical and mental proportion that the latter can nearly overwhelm the former. It's a sort of culinary nostalgia: the memory of taste awakens the ache of something once delicious long ago.

Like tilting my nose toward a sizzling, aromatic entree as the waiter passes by my table, I feel that twist in my stomach: I want. It's that ache, that hunger - that I understand, that can consume me.

I want a baby. Forget adoption for the moment, because hunger can make us irrational - I want a baby of my own. I want to experience motherhood, parenthood, of imprinting the clean slate that Bourdain speaks of when referencing his daughter. I want the intimate baby-making. I want the swollen belly like an ancient Goddess totem, to feel the surge of the Divine Feminine, to fill this most gaping absence in the story of Women's Mystery and Creation.

Infertility is an ache that reaches far deeper into our bellies, unlike any other hunger we have known.

When Foodie met Iffy. Foodies savor abundance and hunger for more. And this iffy weeps for her empty plate and hungers for just the chance.

Just give me a taste of what this could be like.