I took off my coat and sat down. “One degree feels like negative five,” I said in disbelief. I placed my phone face down on the edge of the dark brown farmhouse table. I took a deep breath and started twiddling my thumbs.

You’re okay, you’re safe, you get to choose. There’s no such thing as “bad food.” You have the power.

I redirected my focus and started doing what my coach taught me: What’s happening around you? What are you grateful for at this moment? What do you want to remember this moment for? I asked myself.

It’s too noisy—in my head—food noise.

I took another breath and looked across the dinner table. My gaze landed on my dad’s shirt. He was wearing a black T-shirt with Bob Marley singing against a red, yellow, and green background. I glanced up at his smiling face and got stuck on his gold tooth.

It brought me back to when I was five, rushing to give him a hug during one summer holiday. He had come from another parish to visit me for the day. All I could remember was his strong cologne, his noisy but clean 1991 Toyota Corolla, and that gold tooth.

Why does my dad have a gold tooth? I wondered. I didn’t think much of it back then, but I thought he was the coolest dad ever. I wish he could have stayed forever—at least long enough for me to show him off to my friends at school. He didn’t stay long, but here we are now. And I’m grateful

I glanced at my sister—she’s seven. Her long legs dangled and kicked the leg of the table at five-second intervals. She’s the height of a typical seven-year-old, but her attitude is already that of a teenager. I can’t imagine how fast she’s growing. When I was seven, I used to talk to my imaginary sister. Now, I have a real one, I thought, and my heart smiled.

I chuckled at my stepmom talking under her breath, telling her to stop kicking or else she’d have to stay behind to wash dishes. We’re here celebrating her new job. It’s a restaurant she used to frequent with her dad.

I looked at my sister’s foot and then back at my stepmom. I admired her white curly hair, streaked with highlights of black. I wondered what she was like as a girl—was she a doll, or did she push limits? Then I thought how blessed I am to have her. She’s a beautiful, smart, and witty woman. Now I see where my sister gets it from.

 I looked down again at my sister’s foot, now kicking at around eight-second intervals.

I snapped back to reality at the faint chatter in the restaurant and our waitress going on about her favorite meal on the menu, answering a question my stepmom had asked.

She then turned to me.

“And for you?”

I smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’d like an eight-piece honey garlic wings with a side of fries and sweet corn,” I said, trying to get comfortable in the corner, squished against the wall because my sister seems to think personal space is illegal.

What felt like a few hours later, the waitress brought out our food. The warm overhead light bounced off the white plates, making everything look even more mouthwatering.

My stepmom got steak and mashed potatoes, my sister chicken tenders and fries, and my dad shrimp and coconut rice.

Minutes after digging in, my dad was sneaking bites off my stepmom’s plate despite insisting he felt “seafoodish.” She smacked his hand at every reach.

I laughed and thought to myself: I’ll forget the calories, but I’ll remember every giggle, every joke, their chatter, and every kick at the leg of the table—I’ll remember them.

And that’s the only noise I’ll agree to live with. For you are indeed a slave to what you obey; I chose to rebel. I choose freedom from the noise.

-Natalia Mason

Check out more of my poems (here).

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Definition

Food noise refers to constant or intrusive thoughts about food, eating, or dieting. It can include obsessing over what to eat, when to eat, or feeling guilty about food choices

Seafoodish (Jamaican slang): A craving or desire to eat seafood.

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