You know you’ve hit a low point when you’re crying because Ocado has run out of taramasalata. And you’ve schlepped to the Turkish corner shop and they too have run out of tubs of pale, pink, fishy goodness. How else is my double-pronged, feeding-on-the-couch operation supposed to function? One arm holding the babe while he sucks the life out of me, the other dipping scraps of pitta/ salt and vinegar crisps/any sort of carb vehicle into said tub of tarama in order to bring umami meaning back into this mundane existence — which consists mainly of stopping a baby’s cry by yanking my boob out of a very functional bra (although as an aside note, British maternity lingerie brand Six totally buck that ugly nursing bra cliché).
Everybody bangs on about pregnancy cravings, but nobody tells you that hunger pangs while another human being is feeding off you are even stronger. The kind of sustenance I’m craving doesn’t run along the lines of sofa-bound comfort eating — biscuits, slices of buttered toast, mugs of tea (as nice as those things are). Instead I find myself drooling over things that are forbidden in Chinese culture, as I vaguely adhered to the dos and don’ts of the postpartum confinement period known as ‘sitting month’.
