In Dublin and Well-Fed

On Saturday, my TC were wed by the sea on Salt Spring Island. Though our wedding day was perfect, it was sandwiched between days of preparation and recovery, and two full nights during which I did not sleep. In my infinite wisdom, I had long ago decided that I wanted us to leave on our honeymoon directly after our wedding. This is why, not five days after getting hitched, I am sitting in the Fleet Street Hotel in Dublin, preparing for our second night in Ireland’s capital city but also for our onward journey to Killarney tomorrow. So far, married life is a bit of a whirlwind for this happy couple.

What drew us to Ireland for our honeymoon? For the both of us, the country’s reputation for beauty, charm, and friendliness. Additionally for me, my love of folklore and the fairy stories of my youth. For TC, his love of whiskey (or whisky, but here in Ireland it’s always with an “e”).

_DSC0216.JPGThough jet lag and exhaustion have prevented us from venturing out far (or late), Dublin is an incredibly walkable city with most attractions crowded south of the River Liffey (with a few places, like the Old Jameson Distillery, situated on the north side of river). Upon our arrival in Dublin around noon yesterday we made napping our immediate priority, however, we were still able to sneak in a walk through the Grafton shopping district and down to St. Stephen’s Green (my favourite part was the ducks) before dinner.

This morning we made sure to tick off something on TC’s Ireland wish list by taking a tour of the Old Jameson Distillery on Bow Street (we booked our tour online which is good because by the time we arrived it was sold out). No distilling actually occurs on Bow Street anymore (the new massive Jameson Distillery now operates in Cork), but with our amusing guide and some scaled-down models of distilling equipment, I was still able to learn a lot about how whiskey is made (TC already knew everything but since he was picked for the special comparison tasting at the end and got a certificate with his name on it I think for him it was just about fun). Did you know that the smoky taste you get in a Scotch whisky is from using peat to malt the barley (versus Jameson whiskey which used odourless coal and now uses natural gas)? I didn’t (well, I knew peat was involved though I wasn’t sure how), and now I do. The tour itself is pretty quick for what you pay (14€ for an adult ticket, cheaper online), but you do get a drink of Jameson Original at the end (either straight, or, if you prefer, with gingerale and lime), and the building itself is kinda cool.

Our next stop was at the campy museum, Dublinia, just across the street from Dublin’s Christchurch Cathedral. At this point in our trip, this is the attraction I probably could have done without. Though our Lonely Planet: Ireland had mentioned that the museum was decent, “at least for kids”, I sort of ignored the “for kids” caveat and dragged the jet lagged TC through three floors of kitschy interactive displays about Vikings, medieval Dublin, and archaeology (where the kids can try on hard hats and boots!). Though I like to think we’re young at heart, my new husband and I did not have the energy for posing in pretend bearskins and writing our names in runes (I tried and got frustrated). The medieval level with its re-creations of Dublin’s quayside, markets, and merchant home life was actually pretty impressive, but I think the museum maybe overdid it a little with their mannequin displays (like the cart of dead plague victims or the man sitting on a latrine seat, accompanied by an audio feed featuring his groans of satisfaction on the crapper). If you ever travel to Dublin with kids they’ll probably get a kick out of Dublinia, but otherwise I’d give it a miss.

Not being much of a city person (or a James Joyce fan), I can’t say I’m blown away by Dublin but I think it’s fair to say that both TC and I like it and are enjoying ourselves, exhaustion aside. Our hotel is within walking distance of everything I want to see, the shopping (if I were here to shop, which I’m not) appears to be excellent, the streets seem safe and the buildings quaint, and our dinners have been superb. Taking Lonely Planet‘s advice and steering clear of the Temple Bar area with its faux-Irish tourist traps, we have ended up eating at French restaurants on Exchequer Street both nights and have not been disappointed.

Last night we took advantage of the “pre-theatre” 2-course menu at Fallon & Byrne (a fancy restaurant above an only slightly less fancy grocery store). Despite being part of a deal, our evening was not cheap, though it hardly matters when the food, cocktails, and service were so excellent (despite our being obviously underdressed, wearing what we’d been wearing on the plane). On something special like the first night of our honeymoon, I don’t really mind spending a lot of money if the food is worth it, and it was: chicken terrine with mango chutney, fresh bread and butter, roast chicken with red onion relish and shrimp butter, mango sorbet with pieces of mango, pineapple, and meringue, topped with whipped cream–it’s fair to say we waddled back to our hotel last night.

This evening we decided to try more French fare at the Green Hen. Slightly cheaper than Fallon & Byrne (though with a tighter interior and busier atmosphere), the food on their “early bird” menu (I guess a reward to tourists and locals who feel like eating early) is just as good. We should have made a reservation, but we didn’t, and were lucky enough to be seated at the bar. We started with cocktails and smoked salmon with capers before moving on to vegetable risotto (for me) and duck confit with blackberries and melt-in-your-mouth butter, I mean potatoes, for TC (I think the duck was better but my risotto sure wasn’t bad). TC declined dessert but I went for the passion fruit cheesecake with shortbread ice cream and it was even better than I hoped it would be. I would never say that TC and I are foodies but we do appreciate good food, and this food was very good.

So good, in fact, that for the sake of our wallets it’s probably for the best that we are moving on to Killarney tomorrow, where we will be staying in a hostel and partaking in natural, i.e. free, attractions instead of fancy French restaurants. Not that there’s anything wrong with French restaurants in Ireland. Evidently not.


Dining in the Peanut Gallery

Empty plate with fork and knife.“How do you stay so slim eating steak and potatoes?”

This question came out of nowhere in the lunchroom yesterday at work. To put this remark in context, two coworkers were sitting at one end of the lunchroom table, having a conversation. I was sitting at the other end of the table, eating my aforementioned steak and potatoes (leftovers from dinner the night before) and reading my Maclean’s. Basically, I was minding my own business and really enjoying my meal. Until one of my coworkers decided to interrupt the conversation she was having to remark on the food I had chosen to eat for lunch.

My answer to her was the same answer I usually give in situations like this, “I guess I have a fast metabolism.” And then I added, by way of apology, “I’m sure it won’t last.”

The other coworker said, “You should have seen her at last year’s Staff Appreciation Breakfast.” To which I replied, by way of apology, “Yes, there was REAL WHIPPED CREAM and I just couldn’t help myself. It was amazing.” And that coworker remarked that I “sure can put away food.”

While we’re on the subject of the Staff Appreciation Breakfast, the next Breakfast is coming up next week. I look forward to the Staff Appreciation Breakfast at my workplace every year. It’s a day for the bosses and managers to acknowledge the work done by administrative staff to keep the department running, and it’s a morning of REALLY good food. Hashbrowns. Pancakes. Blueberry compote. Real whipped cream. The works. Sadly, the event has been ruined for me.

I DID eat a lot at last year’s staff appreciation breakfast. I filled my plate and then went back for seconds and thirds. As I said, the food was amazing. What wasn’t amazing, however, were the remarks my (female) coworkers made last year: “You’re going up there again?!”, “Oh wow, look at Lauren!”, “Someone’s got a sweet tooth!”, “Just wait until you’re our age, you won’t be able to eat like that anymore!”

I was humiliated. No one likes to be made self-conscious while they’re eating, especially not a woman. I felt put on the spot, and I felt that my coworkers had decided I was an acceptable target for this kind of shaming because I am thin. No one at that table last year would have dreamed of remarking upon the plates of any of my more curvacious coworkers, and my coworkers at lunch yesterday would never have said what they said to a larger woman, so why did they think it was okay to do it to me?

I had just begun to get over the squirmy uncomfortable embarrassment I’ve felt every time I thought of the Staff Appreciation Breakfast. I was starting to look forward to next week’s event. I thought surely no one but me would remember how much I ate last year (I certainly have no clue what anyone else ate), but yesterday’s lunch was a reminder that I will not escape scrutiny. If I don’t watch what I eat, other people will do it for me. Apparently there’s a sign on my back that says, “Go ahead and comment on how much I’m eating. Don’t worry, I’m thin, so it’s not rude.”

Except of course it is. And it hurts my feelings.

I think I should take this moment to acknowledge that Fat Shaming (i.e. shaming or making fun of people who are overweight as if their bodies are your business) is pervasive, dehumanizing, emotionally damaging, and completely wrong. I cannot believe the emotional abuse and humiliation people think is okay to heap on someone because of their weight.

This is not to say that thin women (or any women really) have a free pass, because obviously they don’t. What I eat has been a subject of scrutiny for my entire life. When I was a kid, it was because I was a picky eater (foods I wouldn’t eat included onions, peppers, mushrooms, cooked peas, cooked carrots, mashed potatoes, zucchini, whipped cream, spinach, avocado, yoghurt with peaches, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, cheese from a lunchbox, and anything else I had determined was icky due to texture, mostly). I cannot blame my parents for wanting me to eat more. It was their job to make sure I ate enough nutrients to be healthy and I know that they worried about me.

That said, they were my parents and they loved me and needed to make sure I didn’t get scurvy or Rickets or something. Everyone else can go suck on an egg.

Like the gymnastics instructor who pulled my little sister and me out of class to show her assistant how skinny our arms were and to have a good laugh about it (this is the same gymnastics instructor who missed presentation day because she was hungover and needless to say she never instructed in my town again). Or the complete stranger from my first week at a new school in grade 10 who, when I declined some gross-looking English potato chips said, “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you eat ANYTHING?” (this person had literally never seen me eat a meal so I don’t know what her problem was). Or the dweeb I dated briefly when I was fifteen who, after he badgered me into disclosing my struggles with disordered eating (that’s a story for another time), responded by saying, “No. You eat a LOT.” and then told me the story of the time he got meningitis which was obviously way more interesting than a bit of wonky dieting and some purging now and again.

Or the boyfriend in third year university who told me I got the flu because I don’t eat enough vegetables (which remarkably I didn’t find very comforting, in addition to it not being true, but at least he apologized later). Or the coworkers who’ve asked me how often I bring cheese and crackers and an apple for lunch (answer: almost every day, for four years, and I like it very much thank you). Or the countless numbers of women who have told me, with a hint of malevolent glee in their voices, that someday my metabolism will slow down and my eating habits (or at the very least, my eating habits as perceived by people who really don’t know a thing about them) will “catch up with me”. Basically, I’m damned if I don’t want to eat a lot (because then people think I’m “dieting”), and I’m damned if I do.

I have tried to tell myself that I should be flattered, that having people remark on my weight or my lunch because I am thinner than them (as opposed to larger) is not an insult, and that maybe they’re just jealous. It is very little comfort.

I don’t want anyone to be jealous of me, I want them to leave me alone and let me eat my damn lunch. I don’t need any warnings that someday my sinful ways will “catch up with me” and I’ll be fat and feel bad about myself; every woman who has ever been a teenaged girl is already afraid. And I shouldn’t have to justify my diet or describe it to ANYONE. But since so many people seem so bloody interested, I am going to say this once, and then never again:


Sure, I indulge at a free bonanza like the Staff Appreciation Breakfast. Why the hell not? Good food is one of the joys of life and, in the absence of allergies or other medical considerations, I see no reason to deny myself. For the most part though, I pay attention to the food groups, try to get in enough fruits and vegetables (though it’s hard), eat my fibre and my protein, never drink Coke or Pepsi or coffee, have primarily switched to organic meat and milk, enjoy cooking and baking, and yes, like most people, I have a sweet tooth that sometimes gets the better of me. I also take the bus to work which means I get a good 40-50 minutes of walking in every weekday, train in aerial silks, take Ukrainian dance classes, and like being active outside (though the city makes it harder). I know my genetics play a huge role in the shape of my body and my ability to maintain muscle, but I don’t eat poorly and when I do I don’t rub it in anyone’s faces.

And even if I ate fast food every damn day and never touched a vegetable, it still wouldn’t be any of your business. I don’t expect other women to apologize for their bodies so stop trying to get me to apologize for mine. I have the same insecurities you have and at times in my past they have cost me my health. I should not need to justify my desire to feed myself to you.

The next time some random person tells me I’m eating a lot maybe I should look at them coolly and say, “Don’t worry, I’m going to throw it all up later” and just keep eating with a weird smile on my face. That’d probably shut them up.

Or maybe (since eating disorders aren’t a joke even though I would find that hilarious) I should just look at them coolly and say, “That isn’t any of your business.” and leave it at that. I’m done apologizing for what I do and don’t eat. I’m done with acting like I should feel flattered by what is obviously negative attention, and I’m done with explanations. I NEVER notice or remark upon what other women are eating (except to occasionally say, “That looks/smells delicious!”). Humiliating me at the table serves only to patronize me (as if I were your child and not your colleague) and it won’t make you feel any better. So please focus your energy on enjoying YOUR lunch and let me do the same.