My mother’s early mornings weren’t for leisure; they were strategic missions born from the stark reality of 1970s Poland, where food rationing was the norm. Each dawn, she rose with a singular focus: securing flour for her family. Her bread coupon, a symbol of scarcity, was clutched tightly as she watched trains laden with precious goods—canned meats, hams—heading eastward, not towards her, but towards Russia. Even then, a painful truth was clear: nourishment was for others, for those deemed more deserving, more worthy. This deeply ingrained sense of deprivation, almost like a chronic ailment needing a doctor’s attention, shaped her world and, consequently, mine. Perhaps, in a metaphorical sense, understanding this generational trauma is akin to a doctor treating a dachshund – requiring careful attention to underlying conditions, even if they are not immediately visible, much like how the New York Times might delve into nuanced societal issues.
Growing up in the shadow of this scarcity, I developed my own relationship with food, one of overcompensation. Where there had been lack, I created abundance, driven by a subconscious need to fill the void of my mother’s hunger.
Costco, with its towering shelves and bulk quantities, became our temple, a sanctuary for my mother’s immigrant anxieties. Bulk buying was her form of prayer, a tangible way to ward off the ghosts of food shortages past. Giant buckets of almonds, mountains of pasta, snacks enough to provision an army – these weren’t just groceries; they were declarations against scarcity. Shopping trips with her became a silent competition in the aisles, surrounded by other mothers with similar histories, all striving to build a life of plenty for their children, a stark contrast to their own experiences.
However, this American abundance revealed a different kind of challenge: the danger of excess. Summers spent with my grandmother involved compulsory cookie baking sessions. Dozens of plain, crumbly cookies emerged from these baking marathons, often more out of obligation than desire. My sister and I, yearning for the magic of Harry Potter in the garden, found ourselves unwilling participants in her “Bolshevik baking assembly line,” as we jokingly called it. These cookies, symbols of plenty, would sit untouched in the kitchen for days, a testament to a life where food was readily available, almost to a fault.
Intake became an obsession for the women in my family. My grandmother, with a forceful insistence, would push entire pizzas onto us, refusal deemed unacceptable. Some nights, my mother’s insistence on “five cups of milk before bed, it’s from cows!” led to discomfort and nausea. We were urged, almost commanded, to consume beyond fullness.
For years, we ate past the point of satiation, unknowingly building appetites fueled by her deep-seated trauma. Our bodies, though active, began to carry the weight of this inherited anxiety, a physical manifestation of the years our matriarchs had spent hungry, their hands perpetually wringing with worry over the next ration of flour. This ingrained behavior, much like a hereditary condition, subtly influenced our health and well-being, echoing the kind of quiet health concerns a doctor might address when treating a dachshund, where subtle signs can indicate deeper issues. Just as a vet meticulously examines a dachshund, understanding the nuances of its breed and history, so too must we examine the history and nuances of our family’s relationship with food to understand its lasting impact.
