I know it would be a good idea to eat only when I'm hungry, to do nothing else except eat when I'm eating, and to savor each bite, stopping when my stomach tells me it's had enough. Then I would get up from the table and throw away the uneaten food on my plate.
Gradually, I'd come to know how much food was enough, and not overfill my plate. If I still wanted more after I'd finished, I'd wait a bit to see if it was really hunger that motivated me. If not, no second helpings.
One thing that keeps me from mindful eating is the training I received early in life to finish whatever was on my plate. Not only can't I throw away what's on my plate--I can't throw away any leftovers in the refrigerator, either, unless they've turned green.
In fact, an ongoing preoccupation of mine is to find a way to eat the oldest stuff in the fridge first so that nothing goes bad. I consider it a minor crime if I have to throw something out because I didn't get to it in time.
I take the leftover stirfry chicken and vegetables and turn it into chicken soup. If I have a boring leftover, I add something to spice it up--pepper jack cheese, for example. Anything will taste great if you melt some pepper-jack cheese over it.
When on vacation with Adrian and his son Dan and family, I was always horrified that they did not want to eat the leftovers we had in the fridge. They wanted to experience a new taste, and they felt entitled to do that--even if it meant throwing the perfectly good leftovers out--something I could never do without guilt.
Dan also had the habit of putting more food on his plate than he could or would eat. Then he had no qualms about scraping the food left on his plate into the garbage.
See, even the way I framed this story shows you how I feel about "wasted" food. I blamed Dan for taking the extra food in the first place. That rule is printed in my childhood brain. I don't know how to change my attitude to, "Good for you, Dan, for not continuing to eat when you were no longer hungry."
Adrian always liked my cooking, and ate a lot of it. He didn't mind my turning leftovers into something new, and those leftovers into a mystery casserole.
That is the sign if a good marriage--when the person who likes to eat enjoys the food made by the person who likes to cook. It's a simple way to make each other happy.
One of the harder things for me, after Adrian died, was discovering how little food I needed to buy in the supermarket, and how long the meals I cooked remained as leftovers in my refrigerator.
The normal amounts you can buy in the supermarket last too long. I went crazy trying to keep up with the spoilage. Vegetables wilted. Cheese got moldy. Milk curdled.
Gradually I learned to make smaller amounts, and to freeze half to three-quarters of what I'd made. Having lots of little storage containers makes that easier, though I never label them. That means a couple of weeks later, I get to eat a mystery meal by picking out a container at random and heating it up.
Now that I'm cooking for one--just me--I can make all my favorite dishes. I can have mushrooms every day if I want to.
Adrian liked mushrooms, too, but just not to the insane degree that I do.
I'd gladly give up mushrooms to have him sitting across the table from me again.