I'm out to dinner with a bunch of lady chefs. The table is covered in plates because we ordered the entire menu. There are four glasses of wine at every seat because we kept trying new bottles. And now we're ordering dessert. I'm stuffed, but I feel safe. Here, no one is judging my appetite.

This didn't come easy. If you're going to be any good as a chef, you have to taste your food, and on an average day you're eating more than most people eat in two. When I first went to cooking school, being skinny was very important to me, and I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that my job meant I was going to gain weight. Ultimately, my sense of competition was greater than my desire to be thin, but that battle left me hyperaware of how people eat.

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Over the years, I've watched hundreds of dinners from the pass, and I have a terrible confession to make: When I see two women sit down, my heart sinks a little, because of what I see happen so often. First, one of them says, "I'm starving, do you want to get this? And one of these?" then the second woman begins, "I'm not that hungry, but if you really want it. . ." Soon, three courses becomes a few appetizers, and a bottle of wine becomes a glass. I get it: We all want to look and feel good, but I see this so predictably that it feels pathological.

It's time we stopped fearing our own appetites.

The dominant emotion I sense at these meals is fear: fear of looking like we want too much, of being judged. From the time we're kids, we girls are taught to be ashamed of our appetites—that they have to be controlled, that they're dangerous, embarrassing. The result? We live in a world where 53 percent of women are at a healthy body size but still report that they're trying to lose weight.

And it's not just calorie consciousness. Women are taught to share. When I split fries with my husband, I have never once taken the last fry—he always does. On the one hand, what an asshole. On the other, I'm jealous he feels so entitled to his hunger.

The man with an appetite unchained is Henry VIII on a throne, turkey leg in one hand, goblet of wine in the other. The woman with hers unchained is a witch, greedy and monstrous. It's no accident that people who claim the #MeToo movement has gone "too far" regularly invoke witches and witch hunts.

Young male chefs are told that working in kitchens is a rock 'n' roll bacchanal, and they love showing off their appetites. That swagger sometimes darkens into tales of late-night parties full of booze and food and fondled butts, but I admit I envy their swagger a little. We're at this moment because boys are encouraged to indulge, while women stand on the sidelines, using every ounce of self-control to keep our lips clamped shut.

Yes, women need to stand up and fight, but we also need to sit back and eat. And drink. And sprawl. Almost 85 percent of women report that worries about how they look prevent them from engaging in activities like hanging out with loved ones. It's time we stopped fearing our own appetites.

The first time I went to dinner with other female chefs, I kept waiting for someone to apologize for eating so much. When no one did, I started to laugh. Partly because I was tipsy, but mostly because I finally felt free. Why had I let myself be so hungry for so long? All I had to do was stop being ashamed, pick up my fork, and eat.


Amanda Cohen is the chef and owner of Dirt Candy, an award-winning vegetable restaurant in New York City.

This article was originally published in the May 2018 issue of Women's Health. For more great advice, pick up a copy of the issue on newsstands now!