Let It Burn

For new parents, the perfect dinner does not exist

- BY LEAH DONNELLA ILLUSTRATION BY DROR COHEN PHOTOGRAPH BY TRAVIS RAINEY

Before I got pregnant, I had always imagined pregnancy to be vaguely glamorous.

Lush hair and dewy skin, debonair strangers offering you their seat on the train, and delightfully offbeat cravings: ice cream and pickles, nachos with whipped cream at 2 a.m. But my first pregnancy unfurled more like a horror movie. My mood was the first to go. After learning the news, I sobbed every day for a month. Next came the nausea and exhaustion. Suddenly, I was too tired to cry. I had to eat almost constantly to stave off the worst symptoms, but the thought of most foods made my stomach turn.

There were a few exceptions. At first, all I wanted was pineapple; I ate so much it made my mouth bleed. I couldn't get enough chocolate layer cake after that. One morning, I woke up ready to sell my soul to the devil for a McDonald's hash brown. And the whole time, I wanted to cook like I wanted to be in a roomful of wasps.

That loss particularly vexed me. Until getting pregnant, I used to say I loved to cook. But my relationship with cooking had been frictionless. I was the kind of person who would whip up a batch of “just-in-case” shortbread dough while taking a work call, then roll my eyes at people who talked about not having time to cook. I was that friend, I'm sorry to say, who goes on three dates and starts writing a book about the secret to cultivating a perfect relationship.

For a while, I held out hope that my symptoms were temporary. My doctor promised the nausea would be gone by 16 weeks. Mine hung on until about 23. For a few blissful days, I was starting to feel better. Then I found out I had gestational diabetes.