With Thanksgiving upon us once again, I thought I’d take a moment to weigh in on a subject near and dear to the hearts of most Americans: food.
It’s been said that some people eat to live while other live to eat. Me? I eat for just one reason: fun. My body is not a temple. It’s an amusement park. (Please, don’t judge.)
I love junk food. But it does have its drawbacks. It leads to high cholesterol, weight gain, diabetes, high blood pressure and premature death. No big deal. What really disturbs me, though, is the social stigma.
You see, I live in Belfast where organically grown food is nothing short of a deity, which, by definition, makes me Satan. Needless to say, I don’t get invited to a lot of social functions. No telling what might come out of my mouth — or go into it, for that matter.
Surprisingly, I grew up in a household where eating healthy was practiced on a daily basis. There were lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grains and unsaturated fats. My father was reading labels back in the 1950s, long before it was hip to do so. “What the hell is modified cornstarch or monocalcium phosphate?”
And he ruled with an iron fist. Not a mayonnaise jar to be found, or M&Ms, or TV dinners. Pretty boring, if you ask me. What I wouldn’t have given for a bag of Twinkies.
When I went off to college, I took matters into my own hands. I’ll never forget the first time I walked into the commons room of my dormitory. There was a soda machine and a candy machine. My first instinct was to recoil. But then I realized that no one was looking over my shoulder. It was as if the heavens opened up and angels started singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
Just one question remained to be answered. “Anyone got change of a dollar?”
When I first arrived at college I was skinny as a rail. But that all changed in a hurry. You’ve heard of the freshman 15? Well, for me, it was more like the freshman 25.
And I never looked back. For most of my adult life, I ate as I pleased. Snickers for breakfast. French fries for lunch. Barbecue pork for dinner. And the snacks? Don’t even ask.
Fortunately, being an exercise nut, I’ve been able to offset some the effects of my sketchy culinary choices. But now that I find myself closer to the grave than the cradle, I’m considering a “few small changes.”
I decide to do the unthinkable and venture into the produce section of my local supermarket. It’s a place I’ve heard about only through legend and folklore.
It’s a treacherous journey, I’ll grant you. But I’ve always been a risk taker. To make sure I don’t get lost, I bring a voice-activated, GPS system. “Make a sharp right at the Double Stuf Oreos.”
And there it is. The Emerald City. The first thing I notice is how colorful and bright everything is. Yeah, that’s just what they want me to think.
Upon closer inspection, I notice that it’s total anarchy. Naked vegetables prancing around without any packaging. Some with surfaces like the moon. Others with tentacles, reaching out to grab me. And scary names like bok choy and yucca root.
But I need to know. How does any of this taste? So I do something that could land me in jail. With no one looking, I pull off a small stalk of something called celery and take a bite. Immediately, I start to shake and break out in a cold sweat. I should know better than to put foreign objects into my body.
I race for the safety of the deli counter. Ahhh. Egg rolls. Potato salad. Ambrosia. Pastrami. Sesame chicken. “Step right up. The amusement park is now open.”
Wishing you all a happy — and tasty — Thanksgiving. With any luck, the yams will be candied yams.
Eddie Adelman is a writer who lives in Belfast.