For lunch, Clyde and I head for Sun Koon Chinese Cuisine on I-55. If the buffet selections are any indicator, Sun Koon is Mandarin for Fry Everything and Put it in Thick Sauce.
My performance at Sun Koon usually includes downing two large plates of wontons, egg rolls, fried rice, pepper chicken, fried shrimp, and seafood special, followed by a slice of pecan pie and a generous helping of soft serve ice cream. Today, I’m curious about my response to the feast — because, despite having had a handful of fruit and a bite of bread for breakfast, I’m not hungry in the least.
Instead, I am vaguely aware that I need some food. It’s one o’clock, after all. I’m a bit run down, and the faintest ghost of a blood sugar headache lurks at the base of my brain. So I make my way along the steaming selections, visiting my favorite spots first.
There’s just one problem: suddenly, my favorites aren’t so favorite anymore. In fact, just looking at them, I discover I can take or leave them.
I normally lump at least a cup of white rice on my plate — a foundation on which to build a hardy meal. Today, without even thinking about it, I cut this portion way back. To the side of my quarter-cup of steamed rice, I add a few slivers of bell pepper, a few shreds of white meat chicken, and a small cup of soup.
Back at the table, Clyde makes eyes at my plate, but says nothing.
The food tastes fine. I’m just not interested in it. There is no compulsion to get more. There is no urge to clean my plate. I don’t think about how much I’m eating. The food is not a source of joy; it’s merely there.
Later in the meal, I’m surprised to discover I’ve pushed my plate away, with perhaps a third of my meager servings still intact. I’m even more surprised to discover I’m completely satisfied — really, truly, full.
In the car, Clyde wonders aloud whether he should try Topamax himself.