“A German fairy tale.”
“Set in L.A. Because how could real parents preside over such a home? While we still made normal meals, of course, and insisted Emmie sit with us at the table, we were not to try to make her eat; following Dr. Saro’s advice, we’d apply no pressure; we wouldn’t negotiate, no ‘just one more bite of chicken, love.’ She could have whatever she wanted, whenever, wherever: take a box of Oreos to the bath, Twizzlers to bed. So we were suddenly living in a gingerbread house. Or it was like Willy Wonka. I was Wonka, establishing a bizarro kingdom of corn syrup and dyes, but a confused, desperate Wonka—Wonka remade by Bergman. (My dad was kind of a cross between Wonka and Bergman, if you think about it.) Or maybe I was more like Faust, a pact with fructose.
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