At the moment I’m fantasising a lot about food. This anti-candida diet is hell. For some reason even though I’m not a whipped cream fan, I’m constantly seeing fluffy chantilly cream concoctions my mother made when I was a child and we lived in Famagusta, Cyprus for four sunshine years.
I remember watching her patiently drench Marie biscuits in a mixture of warm milk and cognac, enough to soften but not so much they’d fall apart. The infused biscuits were sandwiched with chocolate chantilly cream, lined up erect to form the inner core of what became a chocolate log cake once coated with more chantilly. There was a meringue Mountain cake, consisting of home-made meringues topped with fluffy chantilly, roasted nuts with caramel, piled up into a 3-D triangle, and topped with a glossy chocolate sauce which set hard so that you’d bite into this explosion of textures and heavenly tastes.
With peace talks in progress for a solution in Cyprus coinciding with this diet, the desserts of my childhood are on my mind. Eating is our personal history. Eating is so much more than scoffing something to keep going, limiting foods to get the right appearance, worrying about what to eat and not eat and turning the process into an internal psychological attack when not eating ‘the right way’ or not losing weight. If there is peace on my family’s island I will remember the meal my mother will cook for us to thank God for returning to our town. The first meal we will cook in Famagusta will be liberally laced with the ingredient of grateful tears.
I wish you all happy moments eating with your loved ones and if you are eating alone that includes enjoying being with your loved inner self too.