When I was between the ages of 17 and 20, I could only eat lunch at 1 p.m.; it seemed the world would end if I didn’t. I waited for the exact hour and minute to prepare and eat each meal, regardless of whether my hunger pangs had set in hours before. So when the clock chimed 12:45, my ears would perk up like a hound dog’s on a hunt. Then I would tiptoe downstairs, doing everything possible to avoid attracting attention, and prepare my lunch. But I couldn’t just eat—the kitchen had to be immaculate.
