If you looked into my fridge today—well, if I still had my own fridge; long story—you wouldn’t find some of my friends from the past, including a frozen #4 strategically placed for a post-apocalyptic emergency. The freezer would have one tray, yes, just one lonesome tray of ice, a bag of that spicy, Peruvian rice from Trader Joe’s and some berries. In the fridge you would likely find an open bottle of Monkey Bay SB, can of cat food, organic blueberries, some freshly baked bread with lots of seeds, a thick crust and a crazy delicious center, neufchatel, Alaska (wild) lox, organic tomatoes, a can of artichokes, little bag of carrots, 1% organic milk (2% if I’m feeling particularly wild that week), oj, possibly some wheat dough, big bin of organic mixed greens, possibly kale, eggs, a leftover container of beans and rice, plain Kefir, and probably some form of fruit from the Farmer’s Market.
The following week you would find a hard-boiled egg and mascara stains left by the hunger tears I would cry realizing I should probably see if I could last just a few more days without going back to the store and/or market.
Thirteen years ago, you would have found the following: a freezer full of Hot Pockets with ham and cheese, beef microwave burritos, sliced white bread, Kraft cheese, lettuce, milk, oj, eggs, HOT DOGS, buns, mini pepperoni pizzas, frozen mesquite chicken from Price Club, soda!!!!!!! and then products of my mother’s choice.
So, before we delve into what happened and why, here’s a glimpse into something I think is very important:
start here and navigate to: project >> you are what you eat >> statement & images
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Quarter Pound Love Affair: When I First Realized Food Affected Me
I don’t recall how often I was able to convince my mother to actually take me to my favorite “restaurant”, but it was never often enough. As an elementary schooler I would crawl around on hands and knees desperately begging her to stop cooking borsht so that she could drive me to that special place, the one that served the best food ever. Its name started with an M and ended with a me hyperventilating with excitement--well, kind of.
There were varying forms of love in my life then; as any young child, I felt strong emotions for my playmates, doggies, kitties, other absurdly adorable baby animals, stuffed animals, gummy candy (in the shape of animals) and, finally, anything related to fast-food--usually smothered with ketchup and/or cheese. Mention of fast food may or may not surprise you in this context, but I had found early on that nothing put butterflies in my stomach like the hint of possibility that that night was going to be the night I would be able to convince my Mom to buy me fast-food for dinner. Keep in mind that I had to work for those outings and that they didn’t come often.
Had I been wiser, I may have questioned my rapidly blossoming love for the #4 with a shovel-full of french fries and soda on the side. If I could go back and interrogate my first three #4s, I would demand answers to so many questions: Will my young mind be able to handle this repeated state of heightened arousal followed by food coma? What is IN those fries?? Is this a one-sided state of infatuation or can the Triangular Theory of Love help me understand my feelings in a new way?
My relationship with the #4 meal evolved with time. The #4 was so good I didn’t know what to do with myself when I was eating it. Many years later, on a sunny California day, my friend T—just T, to preserve his anonymity and sense of self-worth—described exactly what I never knew the #4 had made me want to do to it:
“I woke up the next morning to find myself covered in nasty meat and torn hamburger wrappers. Upon further examination, I noticed E--- asleep in the fetal position on a rug by the sofa, covered in ketchup and what appeared to be bun particles. The ceiling showed signs of a struggle with condiments—most evidently, pickles—and napkins lay strewn across the living room floor. The memories started coming back to me. I knew then that I had gone Wolverine on the burgers.”
Like all intensely good feelings, my extreme passion for the #4 gradually faded. To keep the spark alive I began fry eating competitions with my then fifth-grade-self. Could I finish the #4 sandwich AND eat every fry in the little, gloriously large basket?
Occasionally, I will feel an overwhelming, intense craving for the #4. Actually, just writing this makes me want to frenziedly run to the nearest fast-food place. I guess I could at least smash a lamp to ease the adrenaline rush. Outings to visit #4 had exposed me to the delirious joy of high-fat, high salt and sodium deliciousness, and after enough #4s, I found it increasingly difficult to enjoy other types of food.
There were varying forms of love in my life then; as any young child, I felt strong emotions for my playmates, doggies, kitties, other absurdly adorable baby animals, stuffed animals, gummy candy (in the shape of animals) and, finally, anything related to fast-food--usually smothered with ketchup and/or cheese. Mention of fast food may or may not surprise you in this context, but I had found early on that nothing put butterflies in my stomach like the hint of possibility that that night was going to be the night I would be able to convince my Mom to buy me fast-food for dinner. Keep in mind that I had to work for those outings and that they didn’t come often.
Had I been wiser, I may have questioned my rapidly blossoming love for the #4 with a shovel-full of french fries and soda on the side. If I could go back and interrogate my first three #4s, I would demand answers to so many questions: Will my young mind be able to handle this repeated state of heightened arousal followed by food coma? What is IN those fries?? Is this a one-sided state of infatuation or can the Triangular Theory of Love help me understand my feelings in a new way?
My relationship with the #4 meal evolved with time. The #4 was so good I didn’t know what to do with myself when I was eating it. Many years later, on a sunny California day, my friend T—just T, to preserve his anonymity and sense of self-worth—described exactly what I never knew the #4 had made me want to do to it:
“I woke up the next morning to find myself covered in nasty meat and torn hamburger wrappers. Upon further examination, I noticed E--- asleep in the fetal position on a rug by the sofa, covered in ketchup and what appeared to be bun particles. The ceiling showed signs of a struggle with condiments—most evidently, pickles—and napkins lay strewn across the living room floor. The memories started coming back to me. I knew then that I had gone Wolverine on the burgers.”
Like all intensely good feelings, my extreme passion for the #4 gradually faded. To keep the spark alive I began fry eating competitions with my then fifth-grade-self. Could I finish the #4 sandwich AND eat every fry in the little, gloriously large basket?
Occasionally, I will feel an overwhelming, intense craving for the #4. Actually, just writing this makes me want to frenziedly run to the nearest fast-food place. I guess I could at least smash a lamp to ease the adrenaline rush. Outings to visit #4 had exposed me to the delirious joy of high-fat, high salt and sodium deliciousness, and after enough #4s, I found it increasingly difficult to enjoy other types of food.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Innocent Beginnings: Why I Want to Write About Food
I’m not a nutritionist, and I have NO IDEA WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, but let’s keep this blog positive.
When my mother and I immigrated to the states in the early ‘90s, I had never heard of McDonald’s or Roy Rogers or french fries or super sized meals or people having competitions where they stuffed as many hot dogs as possible, and as quickly as possible, into their mouths to win a prize or an honorable mention. Actually, I had never even seen a hot dog. The Soviet border had been closed, and I was young, and oh-so-naïve about food.
The only important food lesson I truly retained from that stage of my childhood came from "Vinni Puh": certain products are delicious and desirable, but difficult to obtain.
What I also remember is that most food products took time and effort to acquire then. My grandmother and I would navigate the busy city streets with a sense of urgency that only a child really eager to grow up and a soon-to-be retiree could feel as they marched into the future. We would take the trolleybus over to a poultry kiosk in the morning and then head over to a little dairy shop a few blocks away to get the rest of what we needed for that week. On the way back we would stop at a third shop to pick up toilet paper and a few other necessities. Although Grandma is and was an incredible cook, the ingredients used were nothing extravagant and there was little food waste or leftovers at the end of a meal. Like people in any circumstance, we made due with what we had and never imagined that elsewhere, others were leading completely different lives that included tons of yellow bananas in the winter--sometimes bananas with ice cream (!!!), Snickers ice cream bars for dessert, tall glasses of Coca-Cola with dinner, giant food mega centers for shopping and “fast-food” places for fun.
When my mother and I immigrated to the states in the early ‘90s, I had never heard of McDonald’s or Roy Rogers or french fries or super sized meals or people having competitions where they stuffed as many hot dogs as possible, and as quickly as possible, into their mouths to win a prize or an honorable mention. Actually, I had never even seen a hot dog. The Soviet border had been closed, and I was young, and oh-so-naïve about food.
The only important food lesson I truly retained from that stage of my childhood came from "Vinni Puh": certain products are delicious and desirable, but difficult to obtain.
What I also remember is that most food products took time and effort to acquire then. My grandmother and I would navigate the busy city streets with a sense of urgency that only a child really eager to grow up and a soon-to-be retiree could feel as they marched into the future. We would take the trolleybus over to a poultry kiosk in the morning and then head over to a little dairy shop a few blocks away to get the rest of what we needed for that week. On the way back we would stop at a third shop to pick up toilet paper and a few other necessities. Although Grandma is and was an incredible cook, the ingredients used were nothing extravagant and there was little food waste or leftovers at the end of a meal. Like people in any circumstance, we made due with what we had and never imagined that elsewhere, others were leading completely different lives that included tons of yellow bananas in the winter--sometimes bananas with ice cream (!!!), Snickers ice cream bars for dessert, tall glasses of Coca-Cola with dinner, giant food mega centers for shopping and “fast-food” places for fun.
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