I grew up in San Francisco, land of organic vegetables and vegan delights, before such things were so popular. From an early age, my parents sent me to school with peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, and fresh fruit from the fields of the Central Valley. Although I had every opportunity to eat delicious and nutritious food, I never met a vegetable I liked.

Every time I tried something green, I spit it out or threw it up. I was a theatrical kid: taking off all my clothes when I didn’t want to leave a friend’s house, throwing myself against walls screaming “Aya not tired! Aya happy! Aya bouncing off the walls!” when I didn’t want to go to bed. I was just as melodramatic with food, gagging loudly when I accidentally ran into a zucchini in a quiche, picking mushrooms out of pasta dishes and piling them on the side of my plate like dams, throwing out a perfectly good tuna melt if there were slivers of celery inside.

What I could keep down was junk food. Lots and lots of junk food. My parents tried their best, but the only times I was truly happy were the two days a week I ate fast food for dinner, one day with my mom at McDonald’s and the other with my dad at Wendy’s. My parents were divorced; I spent exactly half the week with each of them, alternating every Saturday.

Neither parent knew about the other’s weekly convenience meal. Like most children of divorce, the only power I had was to keep their secrets and then exploit them when it suited my needs. I kept these fast-food visits confidential, allowing both parents to think they were treating me to something special. I would sit in the car, beatifically chewing, fondling a Hamburglar toy or cheap movie tie-in that had come with the food.