Laura Shapiro

Before I earned my doctorate in clinical psychology, I was, for one night, a prep cook and dishwasher in San Francisco’s Mission District. I knew I had no business being in that kitchen; I was a fraud. But I had recently been freed from the cushy constraints of college and had no direction. The diploma handed to me months earlier was a meaningless rubber stamp on an inconsistent, uninspired undergraduate performance. I had no idea how to prove my mettle outside of the ivory tower, and thought frequently of my father, who taught junior high in the South Bronx all day and then worked a maitre d’ shift at the Carnegie Deli at night.

If my weight’s okay, dinner for me might be muesli with chopped prunes, dried apricot, six unsalted almonds, dusting of Equal, and a cup of whole milk. Delicious! If weight-fighting, it’s back to tuna salad with one slice seven-grain toast and half a tablespoon of diet margarine. Dessert every night is that whole package of sugar-free diet Jell-O in one dish just for me—one envelope couldn’t possibly serve four as directions suggest—with a dollop of peach, lemon, strawberry or whatever Dannon light yogurt on top. Fifty cals—heaven! —I’m Wild Again