Of course I like matcha, I used to eat chalk

Inside me, there are two wolves. One tracks protein intake religiously and washes vitamin C supplements down with chia seed water every morning. The other orders in three times a week and chases dangerous quantities of instant ramen with 10pm coffees. The whiplash‑inducing duality of my relationship with nutrition makes me feel like an imposter among the ranks of wellness girlies on the internet. I feel like both prey and perpetrator in this Instagram‑induced aestheticisation of healthy living. And my latest indulgence is a green beverage that has the Pilates Princesses in a chokehold and the meme bros in a content‑making goldmine. I stand before the jury, a matcha convert.

As someone who is, to most of her friends, the pickiest eater they know (I prefer the term discerning, they prefer adjectives that are less generous), I’ve smugly relished the fact that I have a palate for this utterly divisive beverage. That is, until a casual lunch with my colleagues last week, when a mini epiphany uncovered the root of this proclivity.

Welcome to the confessions of a former chalk‑eater.

Allow me to preface this by saying that I’m well aware correlation doesn’t imply causation. But I’ll also say this: three of us at that lunch table confessed to childhood cravings for chalk, plaster and dust (yes, dust too) along with a present‑day love for matcha. A quick Google search revealed that this wasn’t just a coincidence, as I would’ve liked to believe, but an eating disorder called pica that is most common in children and pregnant women. Those with pica tend to eat non-food items, and for some, the list expands to include the likes of ash, talcum powder, paper, thread, even soap. Researchers have linked this to nutritional deficiencies and potential obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but those rushing to WebMD to self-diagnose—fret not. Pica is harmless in most cases, as it’s usually just a phase.

Growing up, I wasn’t terribly precious about what I put in my mouth. The teacher’s desk was like my very own chalkuterie board; every shape and colour was fair game, much to the horror of my dear mother, who had to contend with a blue-tongued Nuriyah one day after school. I also enjoyed the occasional Kwality Wall’s quality wall, a phase that lasted a few months in primary school, when I’d eat tiny bits of plaster off a wall at home (this time, shocking my father). Eventually, I grew out of it all, but it begs the question: what prompted this chrysalis from chalk-eating child to matcha girl?