The Only Living Figs in New York

I ended this year's Thanksgiving dinner upright (though just barely), and still wearing the clothes I'd worn at the start of the meal (though stomach straining against the tight-to-begin-with waistband). I went to sleep just past midnight, uncomfortably full.

I consider this progress. Maybe even major progress.

Last year, for example, I ate and drank so much that I could not eat any dessert, not even with the Thanksgiving-mandated several-hour break. And that, my friends, is saying something, considering the vast quantities of food I am capable of consuming during a binge. I was beyond full and sweaty and could not sleep that night. My back hurt, always the sure sign of a horrible binge – my theory is that my stomach is so distended that it pulls at my back.

In previous years I have nearly passed out from the amount of food I've consumed, and woken up in the middle of the night, hating myself and wondering how much of my insane behavior other people noticed.

But this year I felt like I overate like something approaching a normal person, whatever that is. I ate a lot, that is for sure. And then there was this messy behavior: While the rest of the family went on a post-prandial stroll (I was too cold and so stayed home with my sister's sister-in-law, who was too full to move), I attacked the cheese plate I'd ignored before dinner. And I had a few handfuls of chocolate chips, a few chocolate mints, and some dried figs. And a spoonful of peanut butter. And a couple of toddler-friendly vanilla cookies. Don't ask.

Still, though. It could have been much, much worse. When they returned and we had dessert, I left over part of what I liked the least (my sister's homemade Boston cream pie). I didn't feel at all well, but I didn't think I was going to have to lie down on the floor and pray silently to be put out of my misery.

The next day I woke up feeling, well, not great. But I could put my jeans on (there have been years where this has not been easy). I didn't feel hungry, exactly, but nor did I have either the I'm-stuffed-from-the-night-before feeling or the post-binge stomach-stretched ravenousness. And I did not go to the gym, something I also consider progress. Not only do I not need to work out every day (and I had done so in the few days pre-feast, and on the day itself), but I do not need to contort myself into crazy sleep-deprived overscheduled insanity to work in a workout (something of which I have been and still occasionally am guilty).

I don't know why I didn't expect, though, that the day after Thanksgiving would be at least as hard if not more so than the day itself. I struggled not to binge on what felt like a second-by-second basis.

I wanted my snack right after breakfast -- something that happens a lot, frankly, but this was with unusual intensity. Then we went to the Newseum – given that it's about the news business, not my first choice of museum, but never mind – and all I could think about was sneaking off to the cafe to binge.

Later on, when I realized I had enough time to skip the subway and walk across town, almost every step was excruciating. Although it was a beautiful sunny day – so warm even always-cold me didn't need a coat – it was a tour of binges past and, please please not, I hoped as I walked, present.

Almost every shop and restaurant set off a binge memory – buying food, needing food, wanting food. Even the White House itself wasn't exempt: I flashed back to a New Year's Eve at least a decade ago, where I'd lost some weight but had begun bingeing again. I took a brisk run to the White House before slipping into my dress for the evening, hoping desperately the exercise might (a) help my dress fit and (b) hit some sort of reset button and stem the disastrous tide of overindulgence. (The dress fit, but barely, and I binged that night.)

I passed 2000 Penn, a little shopping center where I used to sneak to binge sometimes from work. That's if I made it that far: there were three Au Bon Pains within a block of my office, plus a Borders with a cafe that sold crumb cake with inch-thick sugary streusel topping.

And when I reached Foggy Bottom, I eyed the Whole Foods bakery warily. I thought both about how much damage to myself I could have done at the place years ago -- and how much I could still do at that moment.

***

Just before 5 pm on Thanksgiving eve, I received an email from my sister requesting black mission figs.

I do not do well around food – well, food when combined with family – unless I am eating it, so I had timed my arrival to avoid a lot of the food prep. (If this sounds ridiculously selfish, please consider that my brother-in-law loves to cook, my sister loves to bake, and their kitchen barely has space for two of them. Plus everyone else was also turning up on Thanksgiving in time to eat.)

I also particularly struggle with grocery shopping for unfamiliar items – the hunt through shops forces me to consider all sorts of items I would usually bypass, and often, just considering them makes me crave them. You can only imagine what sorts of things there were to look at in shops on the night before Thanksgiving – and how intense the crowds were.

I rolled my eyes at my sister the martyr – since when did our Thanksgiving dinner ever include black mission figs with goat cheese crostini, and frankly, wasn't there going to be enough food anyway?

Once upon a time I might have made a quick check of a shop or two and told her I couldn't find them. (Or maybe I would have used the hunt as a binge excuse, and so not made it all that far? That's possible, too.) But I genuinely wanted to be helpful, and so went out in the pouring rain to at least six specialty shops. I knew it was useless to try the phone at that point – all the lines would be engaged.

(Note: The questions I received when enquiring about figs were ridiculous. I particularly enjoyed: "Why didn't you look earlier in the week?" My response: "Why didn't you stock more figs?")

As I trekked around Lower Manhattan I mentally sang "The Only Living Figs in New York" to the Simon & Garfunkel tune, and almost enjoyed the hunt.
I finally found 10 figs (my sister had requested 20), and packed them in an egg carton so they wouldn't bruise during transport.

The morning of Thanksgiving, as I schlepped to Penn Station with my bags while babying the figs, I watched people carefully carrying all manner of food. Sometimes, we smiled knowingly at each other. I filled up on the feeling of being a part of something, at least for a few minutes.

***

Thanksgiving launches five of the toughest weeks of the year for me – and it only seems to get worse as the years pass.

My grandfather died on Thanksgiving eve – the table already was set for the feast – when I was five. My grandmother died on the Saturday after Thanksgiving last year. My mother died the week before Christmas 2003 -- and her birthday is the first week in December.

My father's birthday is December 13, and although he's very much here, it serves as a reminder of a relationship with which I struggle – and about which I feel immensely guilty and sad. Chanukah usually does little more than breed a bit more resentment: My father does not acknowledge the holiday for his daughters (he doesn't always acknowledge birthdays either, though I must note he has observed both of these for girlfriends). And I think of the cards – and the familiar, distinctive handwriting – that always used to arrive from my mother and grandmother.

I could go on, but I won't.

A friend calls this season the Bermuda Triangle. Here's hoping I don't disappear into my head – or the food.