When I was a kid, home was a place of being controlled in every aspect of my life. Food was used as just another way to control, humiliate and neglect me. I was often underfed, and punished or berated for still being hungry despite being chronically underfed. “You’re so greedy.” I was accused of “stealing food” whenever I got so hungry that I took one single biscuit from the biscuit jar despite feeling so weak.

There was one place though, where I felt really secure and loved. My nan’s house.

My Nan’s House

Walking into my nan’s house was like walking into a bakery — the smell of cakes being baked hit you as soon as you opened the front door. Her door was always unlocked too, it was a place of always being welcome, and that’s exactly how she made me feel. You’d have to walk in and shout, “Nan? You in?” and she’d nearly always be in the kitchen, baking, cooking — I just had to follow the intoxicating smell of food.

My nan’s love language was feeding people, and also giving away everything she owned. It’s one of the reasons her front door was always open — her neighbours would get fed too. Even if, funnily enough, she didn’t even like them very much.

Nan: “I can’t stand her, she does my head in.”
Me: “What? You just gave her a roast dinner?”
Nan: “Well, I might not like her but I wouldn’t see anyone go hungry, would I.”

She was a typical Welsh older lady. She spoke her mind VERY colourfully, with swear words you’ve never even heard before, and you’d absolutely know if you annoyed her or did something unjust. Unless that is, you needed food. Then, it didn’t matter.

I loved staying at her house. My parents would often go and get drunk on a weekend, so I’d stay there overnight. She’d have already prepared for my arrival by hoarding all of the food she thought I might like — giant bags of Woolworth’s pick n mix, several packets of biscuits, multiple packets of kids’ cereal because she didn’t know which one I’d like.

There were vintage glass sweet jars with lids all around her living room, filled with sweets — Mint Imperials, humbugs, even biscuits. She’d make sure all of them were filled for me, and the smell of Mint Imperials would waft around the living room from the jars. Such a wonderful-smelling mint — sweet and not sharp.

The clink the jar made when you opened and closed them — I can still hear it. It makes me smile whenever I think about it. Because it’s so different to the clink of the biscuit jar at home, the one that got me in trouble for stealing a biscuit. That clink was an alarm I’d try not to set off.

Whereas the clink of my nan’s glass jar was a little minty celebration.

The Quiet Love of My Grandad

My grandad lived there too — always sat in his chair, reading the paper, petting his dog, Sooty. He was non-verbal, but I know he loved me — especially when I gave lots of love to Sooty and played with him, his pride and joy.

Sooty was a black Staffordshire Bull Terrier, glued to my grandad’s side. He was built like a gym bro but soft as a marshmallow — gentle, protective, and always close.

My grandad loved to watch football — especially Tottenham Hotspur — and he’d go on long, daily walks with Sooty. He’s always in the background of my memories, smiling quietly. And every time I hear the Match of the Day theme tune, I think of him. He used to watch it over and over again.

Once, I asked my nan why Grandad didn’t talk to me. She said:

“He does talk. Not all talking is words. Just watch his face light up when you play with Sooty — he loves that.”

That stuck with me and felt really important.

And later in life, when I had a son of my own — autistic, low-verbal — I already knew how to listen to someone who speaks love without words.

The Nan Who Loved Through Food

She had zero interest in controlling me or how much I ate. She was always so concerned with how hungry I was when I arrived. She saw it as a problem she could fix — not that I was greedy.

“If you’re still hungry, you need to eat. Doesn’t matter how much.”

I’d been starved of food and care all week, and now my nan was handing me unlimited food and love.

I’d eat so much at her house, simply because I was so hungry. Once, she made homemade chips in the fryer — she handed me a giant plate of the crispiest, fluffiest chips I’d ever had. I ate all of them with several pieces of bread. After, I was still hungry. So she went back in the kitchen and made me another plate. She’d let me pick whatever food I wanted.

Her roast dinners? Wow. I’ve never had a roast like it since. Piled high with vegetables fresh from the garden, mint sauce, meat she’d got locally — and the pièce de résistance: her homemade Yorkshire pudding.

It was a big, cake-looking bake with crispy edges, rather than the small rubbish things Aunt Bessie passes off as Yorkshire puddings. The plate would be stacked high, and I’d eat all of it with way too much mint sauce, made with the mint I’d picked from her garden myself.

Then she’d pour the leftover gravy — made with goose fat and meat juices — onto my previously piled high plate to mop up with thick doorstep bread. Absolutely delicious.

Once, my parents went away on holiday without me, and I stayed with my nan for almost two weeks. I was still in school, so she packed my lunch every day — and she packed so much food.

Different kinds of sandwiches — ham, cheese, and ham and cheese.
Snacks I actually liked — Bovril crisps, and a yoghurt I was obsessed with called Fiendish Feet (Peak 90’s lunchbox chaos).
Enough to make it through the day. All food I could actually eat.

My mother used to pack my lunch too — and she’d regularly forget I was allergic to chocolate (An allergy I thankfully grew out of later in life). I’d open my lunchbox at school and find a chocolate spread sandwich and a chocolate bar… and an apple.
I was horribly allergic to the first two. So I had an apple for lunch. That was it. This was an almost daily occurrence.
If I said anything, I’d get shouted at for being, “entitled”.

She’d say, “You get what you’re given. Your brother likes that. I can’t afford different things.”
Even though they went on holidays. Even though it wasn’t really about the money. It was about convenience — and I was inconvenient.

So that first day I opened the lunchbox my nan packed — filled with food I could eat, food I liked, food she’d chosen for me — I sat in the school canteen and cried.
Because someone had finally remembered me.

At my nans, I would actually feel full — and comforted, and safe, and well, loved and cared for. So of course, I wouldn’t want to go back to the restriction of home. Of being underfed. Of feeling chronically tired and weak. Of feeling like an inconvenience. Of feeling the complete opposite of what I felt at my nans.

I felt alive at my nan’s house.
I felt seen at my nan’s house.

Late Nights at My Nan’s House

One of the ways she made me feel seen was my insomnia. I’ve always struggled to sleep — since I can remember — and my nan did too.

She approached it so differently to my parents. She hated the thought of me lying alone in the dark guest bedroom, wide awake. So she’d bring me downstairs, wrap me in a blanket, put on an old Western (which I used to call “men on horsey films”), and hand me hot milk and Rich Tea biscuits. Sooty would curl up next to me too — he always guarded me at night whenever I stayed over, like he’d quietly assigned himself to night duty.

She’d say, “Just sleep here with the telly on. It really helps.”

And it really did.

She slept there too, next to the TV. Snoring. Sometimes snoring while still awake somehow. Her chair in front of the telly was where she always slept. She’d barely get any sleep, yet somehow she was still completely fine in the daytime.

To this day I still sleep with background noise. I sleep with Netflix or YouTube playing on my laptop. No horsey movies now though — it’s driving in the rain in Tokyo videos, or Shiny Flakes on Netflix for the MILLIONTH time.

But it still helps. Because she helped.

The Nostalgia Recovery Plan

One morning, I was sad about going home. I’d eaten my Weetabix and was still really hungry, more so knowing I was going home to less than the bare minimum. So my nan handed me a packet of custard creams and tea.

I ate the entire pack dipping them in the tea — she actually had to make more tea to dip them in. She made the best tea. Milky tea and biscuits always reminds me of her. It takes me back to that moment — just being with my nan, being cared for, loved, and comforted with food.

That is exactly what happened yesterday.

I didn’t think much of it at the time — just that I wanted something easy. So I made a cup of Paned Welsh milky tea, grabbed a couple of custard creams, and sat down with Biscoff the bear.

But as soon as I dipped the first one and took a bite — everything came back.

The mint-smelling glass jars.
The clink that wasn’t an alarm.
The warmth of her kitchen.
The late-night horsey movies.
My grandad smiling in the background.

And I thought — maybe this is how I do recovery.
Maybe I don’t force my body into unfamiliar rules.
Maybe I bring it back to the only food memories that ever felt safe.

So this week, I’m starting there. Iechyd Da! (Cheers) to the first of many :-

I’m increasing my anorexia recovery intake with tea and biscuits — not because they’re the “right” foods, but because they’re mine.

Because they remind me that being fed can also mean being held, and comforted, and seen.

And maybe… that’s exactly the kind of nourishment I need right now even if it’s also incredibly difficult.

The anthem for this post is dedicated to my nan who loved this song. Still a bridge over troubled water.