I cried easily. Perhaps I plead migraine, or maybe it was sleeplessness. I recognize now that it was simply heartbreak, a condition that today is treated with nowhere near the amount of seriousness it deserves. In the 19th century, someone would have prescribed laudanum and bed rest, but alas, we live in unromantic times.

I am sure that I seemed hopelessly annoying and neurotic to this doctor for he was a man singularly without empathy, who later went on to beat his wife, I might add, but that is, as they say, another story, though one not entirely unrelated to matters of the heart. But instead of pampering and tonics, or even tea and mysteries, rather than adorable bonbons on the couch of my best friend as author Cynthia Heimel recommends, I was encouraged to refrain from eating for nearly two weeks, to give up one of my safest comforts and sole pleasures. Perhaps I was lucky; this was, after all, before Prozac. I was so astonished that anyone would suggest such a thing that I decided to do it, a twisted sort of how dare you response to what I recognize now was a cavalier suggestion. Drink tea, he said, and juices. Have some broth if you want but otherwise eat nothing for ten days. Fine, I said, in much the same way that, had I been a ten-year-old boy, I might have agreed to smoke a cigarette, put a tack on a teacher’s chair, or a frog down a girl’s blouse. The bet was on and I would win.

The first three days were the most difficult. I survived them through sheer stubborn will. The hardest thing was saying to myself, “This is Tuesday and by next Tuesday I still won’t be able to eat.” Once I got down to a mere week the whole thing seemed manageable, though getting from Monday to Sunday without chewing one single thing is not easy.

I found the proximity of edible things of infinite comfort and began cooking even more than usual. At night, I thought up new recipes; in bed, I read cookbooks.

One of the trickiest parts of the fast was, of course, my career, the fact that food surrounded me nearly all the time, that I was responsible for feeding dozens of people every day. Surprisingly, I was tempted less in the presence of food than when I was removed from it. I found the proximity of edible things of infinite comfort and began cooking even more than usual. At night, I thought up new recipes; in bed, I read cookbooks. Nicolle’s meals were never more thoughtfully prepared because cooking became a sort of meditation for me. I loved the feel of ingredients between my fingers; the aromas that filled the room as I sautéed garlic and tomatoes and prawns seemed stronger than before and more pure.

I was full of energy and good spirits.

I went dancing on several occasions.

I felt lighter than air.

As time inevitably passed and I anticipated the end of my fast, I grew wistful, as if an old friend was about to leave. I reentered the world of the fed with a luxurious sort of reluctance. It wasn’t until the thirteenth day that I actually started eating again.

You could say the suggestion to fast was brilliant, that rather than being cavalier it was an intuitive masterstroke, so well did it shake up my romantic malaise. If you said that, you would be right, but only in a small way. To this day, I believe it was the defiance that triggered my recovery, the show of strength and proof of power that promoted the healing of my shredded heart. I am lucky that I am basically healthy because as far as the fast goes, I don’t think I received very good advice or support. Ten days is a long time to go with little fuel and few nutrients, but it took me a while to figure that out.

That year, I went on three ten-day fasts. A show-off, I became. I could deny myself anything.

I still fast occasionally, but now only for a day or two, and for entirely different reasons. I have gained some wisdom on the topic and as I recommend it, let me also offer some advice. Don’t break your fast with a mound of rich, wonderful potato salad, not even the kind served at Marshall House. I speak from experience; this is definitely not wise. Likewise, if you go dancing in the midst of a fast, it is a good idea not to drink alcohol, especially not three hot brandies with sugar (I said I’d been a show-off.) If you work or live among other humans, you might not want to infuse every cup of juice or broth with several cloves of pressed raw garlic. You won’t smell it yourself, but the garlic will seep through your pores, which is not an asset when you are, say, looking for a dancing partner. And only an unspeakably cruel person would suggest that someone with a broken heart go on a lengthy fast. I am the exception that proves the rule and it only worked because it made me so angry that I wanted to fight back. Make sure you are healthy, and keep in mind that fasting is not a way to lose weight. In fact, it has the opposite effect. The body in its infinite wisdom thinks that you are starving and it slows down its metabolism, preserving its meager resources.

One does not or should not fast to lose weight, but not eating for a day or two can have a liberating, cleansing effect. The fast as Roto-Rooter, the late Maggie Waldron wrote in her wise book, Cold Spaghetti at Midnight (Morrow, 1992.), the fast as a means of encouraging unwanted toxins to move along more quickly than they might otherwise do. I also see a fast as a pleasant way to take a break, to step back from a life that frequently requires that I eat many things–and more of them–that I would rather not eat at all. If you find yourself inclined to fast, take a look at the advice in Maggie’s book, which is simple and full of common sense suggestions for a twenty-four hour fast. Or you can do what I do, and live for a day on licorice root tea, tomato juice, and broth flavored with lemon juice while you dream of other things.