At 8 years of age, Stephanie Klein was sent to a nutritionist who lectured teens in her basement, reminding them, “It’s not baby fat anymore; it’s fat fat. You are not pleasantly plump, big boned, or a little chunky ... this problem, whether you like it or not, will never go away.” In “Moose,” she shares the painful details of what it feels like to be an overweight child. An excerpt:

The Hate Diet

I used to get pissed when he wanted to go to the gym. Even more pissed if he suggested we go together. He might as well have grabbed a Sharpie marker and circled my flaws because “let’s go together” was interpreted as “you could stand to lose some flab there, Missy.” I made it about me, began to cry at the suggestion, and then, he’ d stay, setting his Walkman down on the table with his testicles. I’m embarrassed I was that manipulative. I hate how much I hated myself and took it out on others. I hate how miserable I was with myself. — 2005, age twenty­-nine

There was a point in college, about a year and a half after my summer as a counselor, where I actually revisited my childhood weight, nearly eclipsing it at 162 pounds. I’ve recently seen the college photos, or I’d never have remembered returning to fat. It’s not that I was in denial, too pained to recall the freshman forty I’d smeared on. In fact, it was quite the opposite: I didn’t remember being fat because I was in love. And I’m now convinced that when Shakespeare wrote, “Love is blind,” he was having a fat day.

What care I of such trite things as body weight and exteriors when in bed with a man who loves me completely, just as I am? There are more important things about which to ruminate. Namely, what’s for dinner?

The way I see it, love is an amusement park, and food its souvenir.

I can trace every romance of my life back to a meal. My memories are enhanced by the tender morsels had at tables across from lovers, on blankets with friends who’d eventually become more, in banquets, barbecues, and breakfasts. And the seasons of these romances followed an intricate blueprint through fat and thin.

In the spring, afternoons were spent in New York museums and movie theaters, roving through parks where tulips peeked up through narrow beds of snow. I’d feel his fingertips for the first time. He’d hail a taxicab but convince me not to get in. Our afternoon would often extend into evening, an impromptu dinner at a local bistro. “So do I!” and “Wow, me too!” said in smiles between bites of young Bibb lettuce, wax beans, and golden beets. Linen napkins and polite talk and touch. Seared salmon with morels, blanched fiddleheads, petite peas, and a basic beurre blanc. White Burgundy. That first kiss as good as the last bite.

In the sweet summer of a relationship, brunch toasts were made “to us,” the clinking of mimosas over peekytoe crab cakes Benedict, gravlax, and ceramic cups of coddled eggs. Strong coffee. A ruffle of skirt, coral accessories, freckles, and sunblock. He’d reach across the table to tuck a stray twist of my hair behind my ear. Fragrant strawberries presented with a shallow bowl of fine sanding sugar. The rest of our day planned yet lazy. Salty prosciutto with melon eaten from his hands in a rowboat. Our feet over the sides, making ripples in the water. He’d say, “I love you” without meaning to.

We’d meet at my apartment, before dinner with friends, noshing on hard wheels of salami, white grapes, aged grating cheese. He’d use the word “girlfriend” when introducing me, his hand on the small of my back.

I’d be surprised and excited and would order razor and cherrystone clams on a bed of wet linguine with a touch of cubed tomato and a scatter of parsley. I’d ask the waitress for more bread. I’d offer him a taste, secretly hoping he’d decline. And I’d watch as he twirled his fork in my food, bringing his mouth to my plate. Not that much! I wanted to shout. Instead I smiled when he said, “Good,” his mouth full of what should have been mine.

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