Brew Can Do It ☕️

Where Emma talks food.

Hello lovelies, Thank you for all the messages and questions in my inbox this week. Perhaps we should do a q&a post? If you have a question for me, hit the button below and I’ll answer!

Let’s talk about food. One of life’s great joys, right? The smell of fresh bread, the perfect cup of tea, that first bite of something so delicious you actually stop mid-chew to appreciate it properly.

But add Parkinson’s into the mix, and food becomes…complicated.

First, there’s the Great Cutlery Fuckery. I used to take forks for granted. Now? Now, they are wobbly-spikey-betrayal sticks, flinging my carefully speared potato across the plate (or worse, onto the floor, where it is immediately claimed by the dog). Knives? Oh, I love when my hand decides that mid-slice is the perfect time for one of those parky jerk your hand to the side like it’s directing traffic. Arg.

Then we have the juggling peas. Have you ever tried chasing a single pea around a plate with a slightly shaky hand? It’s a sport. A battle of wills. Me vs. the Pea. Who will win? Usually, not me. The pea inevitably escapes, shooting off the plate like a tiny green rocket, landing somewhere mysterious. I say somewhere because, let’s be honest, I probably won’t find it until next week.

Parkinson’s brings a whole buffet of food-related oddities. Swallowing issues? Check. Weird appetite changes? Oh yes. One day I’m ravenous, the next, the thought of food makes me want to lie down in protest.

Some people with Parkinson’s also lose their sense of taste and smell, which adds another frustrating twist to the whole food experience. I don’t want to sit down to your favourite meal, only to find it suddenly bland and lifeless, like eating cardboard with a side of disappointment. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee? Gone. The sweet, tangy hit of a perfectly ripe strawberry? Barely there. It’s like your senses have ghosted you, leaving you to wonder if your cooking skills have taken a nosedive or if your taste buds have simply given up. But even when food becomes more about texture than flavour, I hope there’s still comfort in the ritual—sharing a meal, the warmth of a cup in your hands, the satisfying crunch of something perfectly crispy.

The Levodopa timing minefield? A daily puzzle of when to eat so your meds actually work. Too much protein at the wrong time? Oops—dopamine delivery delayed.

And yet, despite all of this, food is still one of my great joys. I just have to make a few adaptations. Like choosing easy-to-eat-finger food when my hands are feeling particularly rebellious. Or accepting that soup will end up down my cleavage, and that’s just part of the experience now.

So, if you ever see me chasing a rogue pea around my plate, just know—I’m fine, I’m determined, and I’ll probably win. Eventually. Maybe.

And if not? Well, the dog’s always happy to help.

with love

E xx

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