What's still holding me back?

So as you know, I would say that I am still in the recovery stage of my eating disorder…I know it might take a while, before I am actually at a healthy weight, and completely free of all ED type thoughts/symptoms. Looking at my body now I can see for myself the change that has happened since May. My stomach and face are fuller, my hip and rib bones are no longer sticking out like they used to; my wrists don’t appear as if they could be just snapped in two anymore. But my skinny arms still frustrate me, as does my neckline, and below my neck - it seems like nothing has really gone to here, at all, to be honest. And I’m still so, well, puny. But I know that I probably won’t ever grow any taller and that’s my own fault…it’s too late now for that. :(

But in my heart I know…I know what I am doing wrong! And every day I think about it and say “Emily, you shouldn’t do that.” but yet, I still do. What can I do about this? Well, I thought I’d just share these things with you now, and then perhaps this will motivate me into really, really doing something about them. I have come far! And I am so proud of myself for that; but I still feel as if I could do even more. I listen to my body now - if it is hungry I respond and eat, not simply choosing to ignore it like I used to. I can’t go through the day without having a good breakfast…I don’t like the thought of having that empty, hollow feeling in my belly anymore. I don’t ever skip meals: I always have something, even if that something may be quite small; I snack regularly, I try hard to stick with my meal plan. But there are still certain things…certain things that I know, are not right; and are perhaps preventing me from being a healthy weight…whatever that is. Let me share these with you now.

• As you all know, I adore sweet things. That’s what makes the Ganache-Elf the Ganache-Elf I suppose: her love for all things sweet, chocolatey, baked…etc. But I’ve noticed that, with me, there is a habit of “leaving room” for sweet things and thus not having enough of proper food in order to do so. Now I know what you might be thinking…that’s ok, alot of people do that. I am sure that many of us would choose not to have another serving of potatoes at dinner, say, on the basis that they would like to leave a little room for the dessert afterwards. But with me…it’s a little different. I mean, I really do make room! By sometimes only having a very, very small amount of the proper food in order to do so. For example: yesterday for lunch I had a thick crust of wholemeal bread, a couple of cherry tomatoes, an apple…and I intended to have some cheese with it, too. I cut a few slices of cheese off the block and laid them aside: I felt like just having the toast unadorned as it was, just with lots of spread melting into it, and then have the cheese afterwards with the tomatoes. And so I wolfed down the toast, crunched on the apple, and then popped the tiny tomatoes into my mouth, relishing their juicy sweetness. But then…I was full. And an uneasy feeling crept over me. What if I was still full when it came to hot chocolate time? If I was still full then, I wouldn’t be able to manage having both my usual hot choc and biscuit…should I really be eating that cheese? And I’m afraid to say…that I didn’t. I wrapped the few slices I had cut and placed them back in the fridge. :(
• Also…I don’t think I have enough of the protein type foods at lunchtime. Lunch for me is, as you probably already know, usually a roll or some sort of bread, and then a protein-type filling, and a wee bit of salad…but of the protein filling I have so very, very little. :( Like the other day I made an egg mix, using one whole egg, a nice dollop of mayo and salt and pepper…as I made it I thought, ummm.. this looks nice. But then what did I do? I only ate about a half or a third of it, and put the rest in a bowl to use tomorrow, or for someone else… :(
• There are still some very silly, silly, SILLY irritating little habits I have which I know are not normal and are exactly the sort of thing I would do when I had the ED. Like picking bits off food - that is a big one. And every day I tell myself that I WON’T do it and then what do I do? I still go on and do it. Off rolls at lunchtime, off potatoes at dinner, off crusts of toast, bread, etc, etc. Why an’t I just buck up and stop doing themfor good? Why am I so stupid? :(
• At breakfast…I am still pretty minimalist sometimes when it comes to the important protein sources that I know my body is in such need of. Yes, I do always have peanut butter on my toast…but only a small bit; about 2 teaspoons. I do have milk on my cereal…but again, is it enough? You see I do like to have a good bit of milk when it comes to cereal…I love coming to the end of the bowl and spooning up all the lovely remaining milk which may be full of the yummy bits of rushed cereal and is deliciously sweet, having taken on the sweetness of the cereal, too. But sometimes I deny myself that and only put on a very small amount. 

These are the main ones, anyway: the silly little things that I DO still need to work on and do something about. There, I’ve exposed them now! And I know that I am the only person who can solve this problem and actively do something about it! And I CAN, I know I can. I won’t let my ED control me…I can beat it and I want to prove it to myself, and to anyone else out there who has read my story and is struggling to overcome their own demons. I know that all of my loved ones are behind me: their support and love is indispensable to me now. But, as my friend told me today, only you can really make that one crucial change that noone else can do for you. Just breathe, believe, relax and let go. 

will the fear always be with me?

My morning snack today consisted of a couple of Weetabix (or should I say, the Aldi equivalent of; Weet Bisks or something I believe. I would recommend them if you are a Weetabix-fan like me but are reluctant to pay the ridiculous prices they charge for the branded one!). But this morning I had my breakfast later than I normally do, and so consequently, when it came to snackrel time, I wasn’t at all hungry. And yep, that voice was there again. Not hungry? Well go without, then! Butr I managed not to listen - well, sort of. I may have had my “WeetaBisks” but I had skimmed milk on them rather than full fat. :( But even then I still couldn’t help but feel anxious and apprehensive; as if I felt that I shouldn’t really be having anything. And so I can’t say I enjoyed my snack as much as I normally do. :(

This is just one example of a little slip-up in my recovery stage…I don’t not have them and to say that my recovery is going one hundred percent smoothly, without any misgivings, doubts, anxieties or mistakes on my part at all..to say that would be a lie and that’s NOT what my blog is about at all: I want to be completely honest with you. But when this does happen, it’s no surprise of course that I get sad and down. For I suppose, the inevitable question hangs over me like a great big black cloud blotting out the sun on a showery autumn day. Will the fear always be with me? Will I never be completely free from ED thoughts and habits? Will I ever be able to enjoy food wholly and completely, without ever having to worry whether I have had too much or too little?

I hope so; every fibre of my very being is longing for that. And I believe that one day I will be. Considering I have never actually spoken to a professional counsellor about my my former issues with food, I suppose I could say that I am doing quite well in that sense. The one thing I know for certain is, though I may have my ups and downs and yes, there are certain days when things don’t go entirely to plan and I let my old ED ways creep back up on me…I know that I am fighting; fighting hard. I know that I want to beat my ED and that I never want to go back to the way I used to be ever again. And it is a fight that I am determined to win; with the help of my loved ones, my baking, and, of course, My Cocoa-Stained Apron. 

summer's first batch of jam...

It's that time of year again my friends...

The sun is shining, the birds are singing...but lo and behold, there is another noise that one only really hears at this time of the year. It's the sound of Ganache-Elf picking blackcurrants. Yep, I freely admit I am no singer - but when it comes to berry-picking I just can't help myself. There is just something so, so rewarding about picking berries. Even if after a few minutes your back starts to ache and your head itches because of those pesky midges. And so while I am happily plucking and picking away and getting my hands all purple with berry juice, I often just can't resist bursting into song. You see not only is berry-picking a joy in itself...it becomes even more of a joy when you have a very special purpose in mind for those berries.

I remember it as if it were yesterday...the day I made my first batch of jam. It wasn't blackcurrant though believe it or not. My next door neighbour brought me round a huge glut of homegrown raspberries which he had been given as a gift, but didn't really want. Now I can easily eat raspberries, and strawberries for that matter, raw. I love them and could easily eat them like sweets, handful by greedy handful. I sampled a few of the plumpous fruits once my neighbour had assured me for the hundredth time he did not want them. Immediately, a burst of fruity sweet deliciousness burst forth upon my tongue. They were amazing. But...there were so many of them. And some were already going mommy and overripe. How on earth was I going eat all of these? And then...I had a brainwave. I hastily reached for my apron and wooden spoon...

And so that's how I entered into the wonderful world of jam-making. Once you've tasted homemade jam, you will want to taste it again, believe me: shopbought just can't match that fruity, sweet, irresistible flavour. I got about four pots of jam from that luscious crop of juicy raspberries. But I didn't maintain that number for long, of course. 

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to make raspberry jam since then. If raspberries were cheap and easy to get hold of, of course, then I would be making it by the bucketful: but in Ireland, unfortunately, this is not the case, and if one were to go out and buy the required quantity of raspberries for a few batches of jam, well, let's just say the shopping bill wouldn't come out exactly cheap, anyway. But...don't worry, all was not lost. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbour has had, for a few years, a load of berry bushes growing rather haphazardly in his back garden...not raspberries or strawberries, no, but blueberries, gooseberries, and, best of all...blackcurrants.

Now raw blackcurrants are nothing special, it is true...but, when made correctly with the correct quantity of sugar they make the most beautiful, beautiful jam. On lamenting the fact that I was unable to commence with any more jam production due to lack of suitable fruit, my wonderful neighbour thoughtfully enlightened me on his own berry bushes, telling me he was uncertain as to whether I could utilise any of those for further jam making. My heart skipped a beat. Blackcurrant jam...now that would be something. Next to raspberry, it is most definitely my favourite flavour of jam...and absolutely nothing could possibly rival it for spreading on toast, dolloping on rice pudding, or smothering lavishly over scones, teacakes, buns, and such like.

And so what started off as an experimental endeavour in order to try and use up a glut of extra fruit developed into a yearly ritual for Ganache-Elf. Yes, I did indeed hurry out to pick those blackcurrants - a process which in itself cannot be completed in a hurry, but, as I've outlined above, is for me a pleasure rather than a chore, despite the scratchiness and the acheing and the risk of embarassing oneself due to the poor quality of one's own singing. Anyway, to return to the point, I picked the berries at my lesiure, returned to the kitchen, and set about making my first batch of blackcurrant jam...and yes, since that summer - I'd say it was abbout three years ago, at a guess - I have been making blackcurrant jam every year. And have been blissfully happy in doing so; as I have been equally as satisfied with the results.

Ok ok ok.....if you are like, really really houseproud (or sorry, perhaps kitchen proud would be a more suitable term here.) perhaps jam-making is not for you. It's soooo messy, well blackcurrant jam is anyway. As you can see from the pic above. It spits when it's cooking for one thing, splattering the walls (and you, quite possibly, so please, do wear an apron as the stains are annoyingly difficult to get rid off once they're there) and the hob and anything else that happens to be in firing range as it does so. And when it comes to pouring into the jars...well, I find it easier to transfer the mixture into a jug first, then into the sterilised jars...but still, all in all it still is pretty messy and by the time you're done chances are your kitchen surfaces will look as if a three-year-old was attempting to paint them purple or something. 

But please, please, please, if you can, don't let thoughts of sticky treacley messiness put you off making your own blackcurrant jam. Honestly, it really is worth all that scrubbing and cleaning and fairy washing-up liquid that will be required afterwards...and not only that, jam-making is so fun. There's something wonderfully theraputic about it all - apart from actually picking the berries themselves, the stirring and the labelling of the jars and so forth. jam makes great gifts, too - along with cakes, a little pot of my homemade jam always makes a very welcome gift amongst my friends and family. It's funny, but even though of course I can only make it during the summer when the berries make themselves available, I've become almost as "famous" for my jam as I am for my baking. And, just like baking...jam-making need not remain an unfathomable mystery to you. And as the jam-maker, you and only you can reserve the right to clean the saucepan and measuring jug once your jam is jarred and safely sealed...oh yes, there is something extremely theraputic about jam-making, indeed. ;)

Anyway, I think it is only right I share with you my recipe for my favourite ever jam :) it makes about 4 small pots, but can be easilt doubled or tripled if you are lucky enough to have that many berries at your disposal. 

• 450 g blackcurrants
• 1 kg granulated sugar
• 1 pint/300 ml (or a teency bit less...,it's no exact science ;)water.

First wash your berries and remove any stalks. Do try when you are picking the berries to pluck them off the bushes without taking the stalks off too, because then it makes it very tedious and irritating to have to pick them off at a later stage. Pop them into a big saucepan with the pint of water and then bring to the boil over a medium heat, stirring well every now and again - you don't have to do it continuously, but don't leave it unattended, that said. I usually multi-task when I'm jam-making - I might be icing buns or something, say, while at the same time I can still stop to tend to the jam. Put a little saucer in the freezer.

When the berries are boiling, turn down the heat to low-medium and simmer for half an hour, stirring every now and again as before. Once the 30 mins are up add the sugar, bring to the boil once more, and simmer for another 10 minutes. 

Now for the setting test. I am sure jam-makers are well familiar with this, but just in case you aren't let me just briefly explain. That little saucer you put in the freezer is not only a useful way of cooling down a jam sample so you can taste it for yourself you see. ;p) no, this is what is going to help you to determine whether your jam is set or not. Put a small blob of jam on this saucer and then wait a minute before pushing it gently with your finger. Can you see a little "wrinkle" on the surface of the jam blob as you push it? If you can, this means your jam is ready! :)But if not...simmer it again for a few minutes and then try again.

And then once you're happy enough...pour the jam into a big measuring jug (the messy part ;) ), and then pour into the sterilised jars (I sterilise my jars by washing them in really hot soapy water, drying them and then heating them for about 20 minutes in the oven at 120c.) They don't need to go into the fridge until they're opened. One they're opened, the jam does keep in the fridge in its jar for a good few weeks, so don't worry too much about that. But once opened it never lasts that long anyway. ;)

And how I became the Ganache-Elf.

Yes, because after all, I haven’t always been a baker, a ganache-maker, or a girl who is just a bit crazy for both cooking and baking and chocolate in general. Well I think I have always been a chocaholic, that’s true, but there was a time when Ganache-Elf was completely ignorant of what ganache is…or indeed, pretty much of the entire baking and cooking world itself. For that world, I’ve discovered ever since I started baking, is one of excitement and creativity and diversity…a truly amazing one which I, once I discovered how passionate I was for it, was eager to completely and utterly immerse myself in…

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when my interest was first and fundamentally kindled…one thing I DO know for sure was that I have always had a sweet tooth, and so when my Mam ever did decide to whip up a batch of cookies, say, or a simple lemon sponge, you could guarantee I would be peering around the kitchen door with wide eyes, hoping against hope that I would be lucky enough to be offered the first - and biggest - slice. And then of course, once I was old enough, I timidly asked my mam if I could help her in her culinary endeavours. My Mam had smiled and stroked my hair fondly, and had assured me that I certainly could, and we would resume to bake up “something nice” that very day. 

My Mam says she doesn’t remember, but I am positive that the first thing we ever made together were biscuits - but by no means just ordinary ones. Well, in a way I suppose they were what some people would classify as ordinary…they weren’t in any fancy shapes or had any expensive or unusual ingredients in them. But they were just so, so good. I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly what was in them and the way we made them, because my mam maintains she doesn’t remember making them at all; and I have come to the conclusion that it was perhaps an old family recipe which now has been unfortunately lost. :( But anyway, I think I could possibly hazard a guess at what was in them. I remember them being golden; gorgeously golden, and crunchy and deliciously sweet. They were quite butter, too - I think, if we were to try and compare them to any of the well-known varieties of biscuit, we would be somewhere halfway in between a hobnob and a shortbread. They did probably have oats in them, and lots of demerara sugar. But what I do know with certainty is that were absolutely divine. My mam had to discreetly place the wire rack upon which the golden delights were stacked out of my sight when she thought I wasn’t looking; for, having already lost about four of her produce to her little helper, she did intend on saving some for the biscuit tin for the other members of the family to savour at their leisure. 

I adored helping my Mam when she baked. My Mam was never an avid baker exactly - she claims she only really did it on special occasions or when the mood took her; but that didn’t mean that her baking was nothing special…oh no. Everything I remember having of Mam’s baking was so, so delicious…she may not have baked alot, so to speak, but the few things she did do she did so, so well. I would always beg her, in my cutest little girl voice, to bake more often than we did - firstly, because I adored eating the home-baked creations; and secondly, I just found the whole actual task of baking something enthralling, intriguing, fascinating. And so Mam would give me the little and uncompleted jobs like stirring the mixture or greasing tins; and I would be rewarded for my “efforts” by being presented with the whisks or the bowl once the cake or whatever was safely baking away in the oven; and being teasingly asked by my mother whether I would like to save her the job of cleaning these utensils? The answer, of course, would be a hastily uttered “yes please mammy”; and, while my Mam preoccupied herself tidying away the bags of flour and sugar and taking out her wire racks to rest the baked item on once it was cooked, I would plop myself down upon the kitchen floor in front of the oven, whisks or spoons at hand, and would stare, with fascinated delight, through the glass door as I licked the cake batter from my utensils; watching as the magic that is homebaking took place before my very eyes.

But as for when I actually started baking solo…again, hard to say exactly when. I think the first thing I ever baked alone, without my Mam’s supervision, was blackberry and apple crumble…this was one of the things Mam did occasionally rustle up when the baking mood took her; and I had watched her make them numerous times. I would literally jump for joy when my mam permitted me to rub the fat into the flour: this was definitely one of my favourite little “errands”. I just loved the feel of the soft, crumbly mixture between my fingertips; and the way the cubes of butter or margarine would gradually disperse themselves amongst the whiteness of the flour under my gentle touch. And then the time came when Mam was having some friends around for dinner and she wanted something scrumptious but simple to serve up for dessert. As she washed the cooking apples and the blackberries for the filling, and started clattering around in the kitchen cupboard where the mixing bowls for baking were all stored, she saw me peeping hopefully around the kitchen door, hoping against hope that I would be summoned to assist her in such an important culinary task. What I didn’t expect, though, was what she then asked me: placing the bowl for the crumble mixture on the worktop, she removed her signature Yorkshire Tea Apron and put it over my head, instead, bending to fasten the strings at the back. “Do you want to make the crumble, Emily?” she said. “By yourself?”

Breathless with excited surprise I eagerly assured her that I would. I was so, so slow and careful, it probably would have been ten times quicker had Mam done it herself, but she didn’t mind. She busied herself away with preparing the main course while I chopped, mixed, weighed out, rubbed in, and so forth. And finally, my proud squeak of “I’m done, Mammy!” rang through the kitchen. Mam fussed over me and told me that I was a little chef in the making, and then entrusted me with yet another very important task: she told me that I could be in charge of actually “baking” the crumble later on when our guests arrived. So I suppose that was the first time Ganache-Elf baked by herself, sort of. From that point onwards, I became the “crumbler” of the house - if Mam ever wanted a crumble doing, she knew very well who would be willing to save her the job of doing it herself. Years passed and, many a crumble later, I was in my third year of secondary school and about to sit my Junoir Cert exams. 

The Christmas prior to that stands out as a special memory for me, especially in regard to the development of my love of baking. You see that particular year Mam, my sis and I had been more industrious on the home-baking front then we had ever been in previous years. Mam always made trifle - it was my Dad’s favourite and Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it for him - but homemade Christmas biscuits, brownies, and sausage rolls all materialised themselves in gorgeous smelling batches, too. The more I baked, the more I discovered that I loved it. There was just something so, so special in the very act of weighing out ingredients, mixing them together, and then placing a tin or a tray into the oven; to inhale deeply and to take in, surely, one of the most lovely aromas you could ever smell - the smells of your very own masterpiece baking away in the oven - and then, when the cooking time was up, to open the oven door and take out your homemade creation…and to know that it was made by you, not a stranger or an inanimate machine - you and no one else, with love and care and attentiveness, and to know that whoever you are baking for will appreciate and enjoy every bite.

And so Christmas came and went, but my fascination with all things related to baking remained stronger than ever. every time I went shopping with Mam and I saw her picking up packets of cakes or biscuits and plopping them in the trolley without a thought…a little pang went through me. Why can’t I make things like that? I thought. I had a sudden vision of me whipping tray upon tray of fresh cookies out the oven; of cutting up a fragrant, warm baguette and serving it, still piping hot, alongside a traditional lasagne; of putting my homemade buns in the guy’s lunchboxes and never having to pick up a box of Tesco Value fairy cakes ever again…and the more I thought about it, the more I was determined to make this little image of mine a reality…

And so one evening I nervously took out my Mam’s ancient, relic-like, but pretty legendary all the same, Kenwood mixer. I put on my own little apron that my granny had brought me back from the Canary Islands last summer. And that is how my baking adventure began, really. And I can safely say without any doubt that it is a journey that I have enjoyed every single moment of. I know that I’m no chef and that my baking isn’t anything out of this world. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever felt exactly good at anything, and there’s been many a time when I’ve taken something out of the oven and thought, oh crap, this is shit. But I know that I am a baker and that I love baking, and that it gives me so, so much joy and happiness. And I firmly believe that my love of baking is most definitely one of the key contributors to my recovery from my eating disorder.

I can't, and won't, eat that...facing fear foods.

To some people, the idea of actually being afraid or scared of food, or the act of eating in itself, is a ridiculous one. How, they might ask, could a human being be possibly be frightened of food? Food is something to be enjoyed, to be looked forward to, as well as a basic necessity, of course. There might even be some people out there who think of those who are frightened of food as just plain silly, or stupid.

But fear of food is one of the main symptons of an eating disorder...and it was definitely something which I experienced myself when I was sick. Of eating...and of food, though of certain foods in particular. As I've mentioned before, I "convinced" myself in my head that I did not like these specific foods, and that I could not eat them. I felt secure then in the knowledge that if my Mam enquired why I hadn't eaten the cheesey bit off the top of lasagne, or if I went to McDonalds with friends and everyone got chips where as I just sat there with nothing...I could say, with apparent certainty, that "oh...well, you see I don't really like that, anyway...". And, ninety percent of the time...this claim was NOT true. It was just an excuse on my part so I could get away with not eating foods which in my head were unavoidably linked with weight gain or were high in calories, fat, sugar, or whatever.

For example...a big one was cheese. Now as a child, I never liked cheese. I remember watching my favourite children's cartoon, the timeless Tom and Jerry, with a sort of perplexed air - why, oh why, was Jerry willing to put his little life at risk all for the sake of obtaining a hunk of cheese from Tom's pantry? I always thought that the holey yelllow cheeses looked ever so appealing, but I always disappointed myself the few times I tasted it for myself. But as we asll know, out taste buds do change overtime. And so when I developed the ED it was probably many years since I had even tried cheese again - but of course, I was thoroughly unwilling to try sampling cheese ever again. I've never liked cheese, and cheese is very high in fat, I know...no, there is no way I am going to eat that.

Chips, too, I refused to eat.  And I can honestly say - now that I'm no longer sick and am recovering from the E.D. ...I can honestly say that I never have had any genuine disliking for chips. Sure I love chips: most people do; and those tempting smells wafting from the chippers on a Saturday night affects me in much the same way as it does everybody else - it really does make your mouth water, doesn't it? But when I was sick, chips were a big no-no. If we ever had them at home, I would always try and have something instead - perhaps a tiny baked potato, a waffle, or something like that. 

There were many other things, too, which in reality, I liked, or had never even tried before but had firmly told myself that I did not like and that there was no way I was going to be eating them. Dressings for salad, mayonnaise, eggs, sauces, tuna....the list goes on and on. But now I can happily - and proudly - say that the majority of these foods I do eat now. Some of these, even, I would go as far to say that I have discovered that I do really enjoy eating them. 

I say "proud" because actually facing the fears implanted in me by my E.D and eating foods which, for years, i had always regarded with anxiety and feigned dislike was certainly not easy. That voice in my head was always saying to me: If you eat it and admit you like it...it's going to be expected of you to eat it, you will gain weight! Your disguise will be blown! DON'T eat it!!" But I succeeded in ignoring those voices. It was yet another step up for me; a step up to recovery and healthy attitudes towards food. I can now happily pop a couple of slices of bread under the grill to make a toastie...a cheese toastie, at that...what could possibly be more scrummy than a warm cheese and tomato toastie for lunch? I can now, without any guilt or ED-type anxiety, make my own salad dressings to drizzle over salad.  And as a cook and a baker I know very well there are literally so many, many different types of food out there which I may or may not have tried...and I feel completely free and happy to be more adventurous in both my cooking and my food choices...without screwing myself up worrying over calories, fat content, or anything like that anymore. The world of cooking and baking is one hell of a big one...and I can't wait to get out there and explore it for myself. ;) 

More brownies, more goo, more chocolate. ;)

Yes, indeed. When Ganache-Elf decides to make brownies, there will inevitably be a large quantity of both chocolate and gooiness involved. Now I felt a little mean the last time I put up a post about brownies as there was no recipe featured...the reason being of course that the chocolate chunk brownies are not my own recipe! But these ones are, though, so I just HAD to share :) I like to call them fudgy double chocolate brownies, as they are exceedingly fudgy and contain both milk and white choc chips...and there is melted dark choc in the mixture, of course. Just remember the golden rules of brownie making...1.)be very, very careful not to overbake; and 2.) do let your brownies cool before cutting and removing from tin; to try and keep your brownies as neat and as even-shaped as their gooiness will permit; and 3.)do not let any of that lovely chocolate mixture go to waste under any circumstances...don't forget to clean that mixing bowl. ;)

Ingredients 

• 150 g plain chocolate
• 125 g butter, softened
• 300 g caster sugar (preferably golden...but white is ok too though:) )
• 2 large eggs, beaten
• 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
• 75 g plain flour
• 2 tbsp cocoa powder
• 75 g white chocolate, roughly chopped
• 50 g milk chocolate, roughly chopped

Method...

• Preheat oven to 180c/fan 160c. Grease and base line a deep 20 cm square cake tin. Put a pan of water on the hob to boil. 
• Beat the butter in a big bowl until very soft, then tip in the sugar and continue to beat until light and fluffy. Use a wooden spoon or an electric mixer for this. :)
• Mix the vanilla with the beaten eggs in a jug. Put the 150 g plain choc in a heatproof bowl and set it over the water on the hob once it's simmering away. Allow it to melt, stirring occasionally, until smooth. Once melted remove it from the heat and set aside to cool slightly.
• Add a little of the egg mixture to the butter and sugar. Mix well, scraping down the sides of the bowl every so often with a spatula or a metal spoon so everything gets mixed nicely together. Add another small quantity of the beaten eggs, mix well once more, and then repeat  until all the egg has been used up. Scrape off all batter from your wooden spoon/mixer and then use a large metal spoon to fold in the melted plain choc. Sieve over the cocoa powder and the flour and fold in along with the chopped chocolate. 
• Transfer to the prepared tin and bake for 20-25 minutes. A sugary crust should have formed on top of the brownies, but they should still be fudgy in the centre. Keep a very good eye on them towards the end of their cooking time...don't put the fudginess of your brownies at risk. :o
• Leave to cool in the tin before marking into 16 squares...though of course, if a substantial amount of nibbling has been involved on the part of the baker...perhaps it would be best to mark out 15, 14, 12...? ;) dust with cocoa powder if you like for a pretty little finishing touch..oh, and if any little bits fall of the squares, you can either a.) attach them back to the square as they will become harder and firmer the longer you leave them, or b.) collect these little "stray pieces", squidge them into a ball, and "sample" your brownies for yourself. And hey don't feel guilty!! It's good practice for a baker to check that their produce is up to standards before serving to anyone else, right? ;) 

The little innocent habits which had such a big and damaging effect...

I suppose alot of them can be described as small and seemingly innocent. "Them", being some of the things I did on a daily basis when I had my ED. I've already mentioned the meal-skipping; how I couldn't go through a day without either missing at least lunch or breakfast; and how, when I did eat, it all consisted of the tiniest, smallest amounts possible. Now I am going to go through some of my regular, abnormal habits and thoughts in more detail...and outline to you the deception involved as I desperately sought to hide the real truth from the ones I loved.

Well, firstly, let's say I was at home one day at the weekend or whatever. When I was at college it was different again...of course when I was away from home, when I was on my own, it was in general alot worse.

So, at home, I suppose we have always had a little daily routine: breakfast about nineish, then coffee mid-morning, lunch around two, then tea or coffee or whatever in the afternoon, with dinner usually being around eight in the evening. And so the usual story with me would be to try and skip either breakfast or lunch, and not snack between meals, of course. I knew I would never get away with skipping dinner at home because the evening meal was the most important and it was the one time when we would all be together - Mam and Dad would be home from work, my brother would have usually have returned from town after seeing his friends or whatever, and my sis, the days before she left home, would also appear, usually with hay in her hair and mucky stains upon her hands, having spent most of the day tending to Molly, our gorgeous chocolate dun mare, who was the apple of my sister's eye. And so I didn't try to skip dinner...I knew, if I just didn't eat then, it would be noticed, no matter what excuse I tried to come up with. But whereas we did usually come together at breakfast and lunch too, it wasn't quite the same thing I suppose. Usually there would be at least one of us missing. Dad might be at work, Liz might have to ride Molly early before the rain came in, and so on. And so I came up with my own excuses to not be at the table when someone else was going to eat. I was careful about it of course...careful and so horribly, horribly sneaky. As I mentioned before, I would rinse a plate or a bowl in the sink, and bits of cutlery, and leave them on the draining board, so whoever came into the kitchen would see them sitting there and assume that I had eaten. Whereas in reality...I had eaten nothing. Or I might have slipped off to my room and shut myself in, pretending to be studying or whatever. I would sometimes put an apple or something small in my pocket to bring with me, just in case my stomach would start groaning with hunger, as it did sometimes...but often it didn't...I think it came to a stage that I was eating so little so often, that my stomach itself shrank, and almost accepted the fact that it wasn't going to get anything...

And when I did eat, even...when I did eat there were still so many things I did to try and ensure I was getting as little food into me as possible. Take breakfast, for example. If I had cereal, it would be a small, tiny little bowl, with very little milk on it. To stop others from noticing what little I had in a bowl, I would usually get a spoon and mash them around a bit in the milk and start chewing on one single piece of cereal before I sat down with everyone else, so it appeared as if I had started eating while I was standing in the kitchen, and had had more than I really had done...

If I had toast...it had to be a thin slice; the very thought of eating thickly-sliced was incomprehensible to me. I would have a tiny bit of spread on it, or a bit of jam. I cut off the crusts claiming I didn't like them - another lie. Mam tried to encourage me to have both toast and cereal when I really started to lose weight, and I pretended that I did have both if she asked...but it was rare that I ever did. It had to be only one or the other; I couldn't have more than my fixed tiny bowl of cereal or one single thin piece of bread...

For lunch, same kind of idea...so little, so little, so little. If I ate anything at lunch it would usually be a roll or a bap - a small-sized one, of course; and if it wasn't small enough for my liking I picked large bits off the inside of it - and a few scraps of ham; placed at the edges of the bread like I used to do with my packed lunches for school...so it appeared as if I had perhaps a slice or so inside the roll while really, of course, there was hardly anything at all. I had yoghurt sometimes, fat free if possible: I pretended I didn't like the taste of full-fat. With milk it was the same: I claimed that I couldn't stomach drinking the full-fat type and so I always tried to have semi-skimmed or skimmed instead. I never ate between meals. Hot chocolate I did have when I was at home. I realise now that hot chocolate was probably one of the things that did actually save me from becoming dangerously, dangerously thin: I loved it so much and I could never resist having it if Mam offered to make me one (again, if I was alone, I would never think to make one for myself...). And the ones mam made were with milk, not water, and always with full fat or semi-skimmed. If I felt as if I had "overeaten" on any particular day, I did sometimes pour away half of the mug. But this was rare because as I mentioned before I started getting fastidious about wasting food, and anyway, I just loved my Mam's hot chocolate so much and throwing it away was something which I really, really hated doing. 

Whereas I did actually eat dinner when I was at home, that didn't mean that I was not constantly fretting and worrying about what I would have to eat for the family evening meal; and the amounts involved. There were many foods which I refused to eat in the pretence that I did not like them. Cheese, chips, creamy sauces, chilli, cabbage cooked in butter...the list is endless; but I'll be addressing the issue of fear foods a little later on, so we can go into more detail about that. I spread food around my plate so it looked as if I had more than I really had. I ate really slowly and painfully and chewed my food loads of times; and I cut my food into the tiniest little bits and placed one bit at a time into my mouth. My mindset was: if everyone else has finished and I'm still eating, I can say that I'm full or that I'm not really enjoying it and that I've had enough. I pushed food to the edges of my plate, letting small bits fall onto the tablecloth, and I mashed up things with a fork, spreading them out so that there was always some little bits of food squished onto the  surface of the plate. I never left the table having left my plate spotlessly clean: there always had to be something left.

Of course when I was away from home...there was no need to pretend or fit in with scheduled mealtimes...basically, I could do whatever my ED dictated I should do.