I hover and press for reaction, but usually, I don't even need a verbal response. To a skilled and dedicated emotional feeder such as myself, their faces are a dead giveaway, rippling with subtle shifts and tics that mark the difference between ecstasy and mere politeness. The world is full of other folks with this, well, not disorder, exactly, more of a penchant for really feeding people, body and soul. We're the ones who came up with the post-funeral procession of casseroles. We're the ones who don't throw potluck parties.
Chefs are lucky.
They get paid to obsess about what other people are putting in their mouths. They're striving for a total dining experience, and they don't mean necessarily fingerbowls and gentle background music. They aim for utter rapture, a digestive trance. They don't know you, but they want your bliss. Anyway, if I did ever go to a therapist for emotional feeding, we'd have to go back a long way to get to the root.