Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly; her face contorted in barely controlled rage “You will eat your dinner” she hissed as tears of frustration rolled down her flushed cheeks.
He didn’t know what to make of this. The food on the plate in front of him felt funny in his mouth; he’d already thrown up once. He sat back in his high chair and stared back at his mother. She let go of his shoulders with a sigh which bordered on a sob and walked backwards to lean against the kitchen cupboards, she was beaten, again.
It was a constant struggle with this child; her first had been so much easier and with her third still breast feeding she was exhausted and at her whits end. He would only eat a very small variety of foods, mostly processed. She’d been to the doctor’s and even seen a psychologist but they were no help, saying things like “He’ll grow out of it” or “It’s just a phase”. Her husband was usually away working but even when he was there he wasn't any help.
She’d left the boy in his father’s care one afternoon; left a tin of peach slices and his milk bottle all ready for the afternoon feed. His father gave him the peaches, then his bottle, no problem. A short time later he put him to bed for his afternoon nap and noticed that the boy’s cheeks looked huge so asked him “What d’you have in there boy?” Pointing at his cheeks. The boy opened his mouth to reveal two slices of Peach stashed in each side.
By his fourth year he was going to junior school so lunch was taken care of with a couple of cheese sandwiches and a chocolate bar, at least he’d eat those. Evening meal though was a constant battle. She tried to introduce him to new foods, and he’d really make an effort but the gag reflex which was triggered by the texture of the food in his mouth would cause immediate vomitus. The humiliation he felt when this happened was crushing and it just seemed easier to eat what he knew rather than try anything he didn’t.
Years past; now dinner times were traumatic for the boy. He’s eight and would wait for the evening meal in near terror of the thought that she’d cooked liver again. His younger sister took great delight in teasing him about his fear of food and her taunting would often lead to a spat between siblings. There came a time when he was old enough to make his own evening meal; his mother was only too happy to let him, she’d long since given up on him ever eating properly. From the age of nine he would come and go as he pleased and helped himself to some beans on toast or a cheese sandwich when it was time to eat.
One particular occasion remains a vivid memory. He’d spent the day helping the neighbour, a farmer, gather in the summer hay. A boisterous afternoon working with some other local boys; he enjoyed the hard physical work not to mention the crisp and tasty Cider the farmer’s wife would provide. At the end of the day a mess of sandwiches was produced and the boys set to devouring them with ravenous hunger. Forgetting himself he reached for what looked like a cheese sandwich and took a huge bite. His tongue felt the tomato skin and before he could move his mouth filled with vomit as he retched uncontrollably. Lurching to his feet with his hands clasped over his treacherous mouth he sprinted away as the farmer and his wife looked on in confusion. It was a few days before he could face them to deliver the lie and save himself the embarrassment of the truth.
A teenager now and leaving home to join the Royal Air Force he was once again faced with the fear of the dinner table. What a horror it would be to vomit in the company of his fellow airmen, but he needn’t have worried. Meal times in the mess hall were loud affairs as the Airmen cued up in front of the Bain-Marie’s full of piping hot food. There was always an option he could stomach; not the healthiest of meals but filling none the less. Grateful he was that his colleagues never found out.
Leaving the military at 23 he moved to be closer to his friends. They were all about the same age and just discovering the adult thrill of the lavish restaurant meal. He was invited of course but often declined upon discovering that there was nothing on the menu that wouldn’t cause a severe embarrassment. It hurt and upset him that his friends just labelled him ‘fussy’ but what could he do. He tried to explain once or twice but his explanations were met with derision and mocking; they just thought he was making excuses.
Years went by and his secret fear of food remained hidden. He’d become accustomed to the taunts of his so called friends when he turned down yet another invitation to dine. On occasion he’d try something new, on his own of course but that rough, stringy or slimy feeling; it could be anything, would trigger the reflex and he’d sprint to the bathroom.
In his thirties now, and living abroad, he was known as the Spaghetti Bolognese Kid. Relieved that there was something he could eat on menu he was bothered not at all that he would always eat the same thing; at least it was safe.
He met her when he first arrived in the small Venezuelan village, she was amazing. A surfer from the mainland, wild and free, he was instantly captivated. She was in a relationship so he kept his feelings to himself, never once imagining that she felt anything more than friendship for him. As the months past her relationship deteriorated but still he kept his distance until one day when his phone pinged a message. His heart tried to leap out of his chest as he read the invitation to meet her on the next island along. She had split with her man and made it clear that she wanted more than his friendship.
The short boat ride across to the next island seemed to take forever as his anticipation grew. He could barely contain his excitement as they drove to the little cottage by the sea which some friends, another couple, had rented for the weekend.
As afternoon drifted into evening she began to prepare a meal. He sat in the hammock watching in terror as she chopped tomatoes, onions and other ingredients which did nothing but increase his anxiety and fear. What was he going to do?
The table was set and in silent horror he sat and waited. The large bowl of toasted Plantain was the final addition to the feast laid out before them. He waited and watched as she loaded up his plate. This was it; he knew that he had to eat, there was no escape. She took one of the slices of Plantain and covered it with the rustic sauce, asked him if she should add the Avocado garnish then added it anyway before he could reply. All eyes were on him as he took the terrifying offering. With a deep breath and a silent prayer he opened his mouth and took a generous bite. With concentration bordering on the superhuman he chewed then swallowed. He couldn’t really taste that first bite, so focused he was on not being sick; he swallowed it down and took another, smaller bite intent on actually tasting this time.
It was an incredible feeling. The taste was exquisite, like nothing he’d had before. If he concentrated hard enough he wouldn’t gag and with each mouthful he became more confident. By the time the bowl of toasted Plantain had only one remaining piece it was his honour and pleasure to be the one to eat it.
The meal came to an end and no-one at the table had any idea of the trauma it had caused the man. He was exhausted but elated as his lifelong battle with food was finally at an end.
He had faced his greatest fear and won