When I was a kid, I was never hungry. Crowds of adults danced around me, trying to tempt me into eating something. But I hated all food, even the kind kids usually love. I remember being constantly nauseous throughout my childhood because I couldn’t stand the look and smell of food.
And then I traveled to the UK at the age of 14. The climate is different in the UK, and people have different metabolism. Portions are minuscule compared to what we consider to be a normal portion in Ukraine. So for the first time ever, I experienced hunger. And it never went away since then.
After the gallbladder removal last week, the doctor came to see me.
“Do you have any questions about the surgery or the recovery?” he asked.
“Yes!” I said. “When can I eat?”
“Erm. . . What?” the doctor asked, looking like this was an unusual question to hear. “Are you hungry? Erm. . . That’s a good sign, I guess.”
The only time in adulthood when I didn’t feel like eating anything was in the two days after giving birth to Klara. Other than that, it’s always mealtime for me.
I totally blame the small-portion, a-boiled-egg-is-dinner Brits.
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