#wearenot9to5 is a series of stories about mental health & addiction from people in the hospitality, food & beverage service industry. We share these posts to normalize the challenges and decrease the stigma and shame. Growing up, dealing with weight issues was tough for me. I was the big kid who couldn’t run, wasn’t confident enough to talk to girls, didn’t feel comfortable around certain friends and family because of their comments, ate in secret and for most of my youth, I hated the way I looked. It made me super anxious being in public, and while I didn’t recognize it at the time, these things took a toll on my mental health. And because I couldn’t recognize it, I couldn’t talk about it. I wasn’t particularly exposed to spaces where feelings were openly and honestly discussed, especially as a guy. Now though, I can. We talk a lot more about mental health issues and I love it. At the same time, I’ve struggled with finding a place to have conversations on what I’ve had difficulty with. Being an African man, finding other guys like me who have struggled with eating disorders and body image issues hasn’t been easy. I don’t doubt that we’re out there. It might just be hard to talk about it; trust me I know. Food has always been a big part of my family. It may in fact be synonymous with our last name. I sometimes think about how my cousins and I would gather on the floor at my dad’s parents’ house. We’d share a loaf of sweet yellow bread, our individual plates of oily peppery stew, and bite sized pieces of meat. At my mum’s parents house, we had perfectly ripened fried plantain (dodo) and fried eggs – an unmatched pair. We’d layer our eggs between our plantain and make little sandwiches. Most times we’d (at least I did) add ketchup because we were kids. With my dad, on the other hand, I think sometimes he cooks because he needs to. It’s one of the many ways he speaks to and shares himself with us. He’s not a simple cook. He’s a person of process. His prep game is mad strong. Growing up in Lagos, Nigeria we’d go to his meat guy at Costain. Costain is hard to describe. Is it a meat market? Is it a butcher’s store? Is it just land underneath a bridge where you could choose your ram, cow, chicken, turkey, guinea fowl whatever you wanted, and have it carved up for you in no time? The details are trivial. I was more blown away by how he picked his ram of the day from, watched his guy slaughter and carve it up and then head home to help him prep. It’d be a whole day’s work that culminated in a pot of pepper soup thick with offals. Each spoon was half fatty goat meat, half spicy broth, the flavours elevated by hints of efinrin (African Basil) we grew in our garden. Pair that with some Goodies pita bread and you’re in heaven. When he comes to visit here in Canada, he spends hours fishing. […]
