My earliest memory of food is of a bowl of Jell-O being thrown across the kitchen, landing on the wall and sliding down the wallpaper. My alcoholic father was having a violent fight with my mother and yelling something about how we should have had dinner at the table, oblivious to the fact that his rage had made it impossible for us to sit and eat.
My parents’ divorce was inevitable. Then, like many single mother families in the ‘80s, my mother, brother and I joined the long lines of women and children receiving large blocks of government cheese and powdered milk.
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