Acceptance is a curve, mathematically speaking. It's not a direct linear move from point a to b. Not for me personally, because I want to know why. This penchant for arguing and pushing back has cost me many things in my life thus far, friendships, time with my family and most importantly it cost me countless hours of my own peace.

I sometimes find myself peeling tangerines, removing the entire peel without breaking it more than once, creating spirals. Meditation in the form of action, like counting rice. The anxiety that has lived inside my body for as long as I can remember is lulled by the ritual of habit, culminating in sustenance, making practice feel rewarding and not simply done for self-gratification.

As a child, my mother took us to a Chinese restaurant in a park, somewhere in Rooihuiskraal, I think. I remember that meal more vividly than I remember dinner last night. I stole the chopsticks. They weren’t wooden; they were plastic with faux lacquering, and I spent hours picking marbles out of an empty ice cream container with them. I’d sit on the floor in the garage where my mother taught art classes.

There’s safety in leftovers, though I didn’t always recognize it. When someone tells me they don’t eat leftovers, I’m curious how they handle food that’s been on shelves for months. The modern supermarket is nothing if not a vacuum of long-lasting leftovers. If you don't consider pre-cooked, fully processed meals a form of leftover, you are not picky, you are spoiled.

It all begins with an idea.One of the most integral lessons I’ve learned is that you can do anything, but you have to want to do it well. It doesn’t matter if your family, friends or community fully understand what you’re doing. What matters is that they see you doing it with pride. With care. With some sense of self-respect, even if that self is still taking shape.

I don’t know what is really driving this craving. It could be the shifting weather or the low hum of niche ice cream content showing up on my feed from this part of the world. But I doubt it’s that simple. When your body asks for something, it’s rarely algorithmic. It’s usually a request for quiet.

I could always tell the braai that day was going to be something special, when I opened the fridge, and a store bought dip stared back at me. The bright green label on the sour cream and chives and the deep purple of the balsamic vinegar tub were small joys. They sat nestled between leftover microwave vegetable surprise and half a polony in a sandwich bag. That polony caused more fights than I can count. Hindsight makes that feel both funny and a little sad.

My relationship with food has not always been joyful. For many years it was Maggi instant noodles and double cheese sandwiches. This unfortunately led me to looking like a very effeminate porcelain doll for most of high school, which was unfortunate but definitely character building.