My friend: the fridge

Screenshot_2016-04-03-14-52-43-1Food. I could talk and write about the subject for hours, and then hours after that. Nay, I wouldn’t stop talking about it unless I was eating, then I really wouldn’t need to talk because the yummy food on my fork would do the job for me. It would talk to my nose, to my palate, to my tummy, to my brain… it would probably whisper to my soul because souls are poetic that way. Food is beautiful.

I woke up early this morning, just like every morning of my life, for no other reason than to torture my body by not letting it sleep. Oh well, more time to dream about food, because you don’t need to be asleep to think of cake and melting cheese and boatloads of rice drizzled with soy sauce. Yes, I have a huge appetite at 7 a.m too. I got up, made my ritualistic tea composed of water, English breakfast tea, a splash of skim milk and that fake sugar that looks like a pill and tastes like something you shouldn’t ingest but still do because sugar is bad for you and chemical sugar is obviously better (I have my stupid moments). Then, armed with a pretty knife, I sliced a piece of the molasses cake on the table and dipped it in my tea. As I bit into it, moist and slightly chewy, I started thinking that if I had used more milk, of the full fat type, and put honey or sugar in my tea, then eating cake would have been somewhat of an unhealthy choice, but since my drink was so light, it’s as if I had cut the cake’s calories in half. This, with the help of my twisted logic, made me cut another slice because apparently I was having “diet” cake. I have issues.

Food is such a pleasure, especially when you are able to make your own, crave a dish and make it a reality with just two hands, some utensils and a bunch of ingredients. I believe diet fads are a ploy to take away one of the simplest pleasures in life, the thing that can make you smile even when alone or tired or angry. Being skinny isn’t as comforting at 3 a.m as a piece of leftover fried chicken followed by chocolate fudge ice cream. Fitting into size 0 pants doesn’t cure the Monday blues, doesn’t make your fingers tingle at the thought of buckling its buttons like it does when you split a crispy mozzarella stick and the melted center oozes out on your plate waiting for your senses to be enthralled.

I like salads, I’m the biggest veggie aficionado out there, give me anything from lettuce to eggplants, even Brussels sprouts and stinky boiled cauliflower, I’ll eat them all with a huge grin. Mum even describes my eating a bowl of spinach like a kid given a tub of ice cream. Loving food isn’t loving bad food, fatty food or fake processed food. Being a foodie is knowing what to eat and how to eat it, choosing quality and understanding what’s on our fork. I don’t eat hot dogs or squeeze “cheddar” out of bottles with a thousand ingredients I can’t even pronounce; I eat what I understand, what nature has given me, and I enjoy it. Some would say I enjoy it too much, but I don’t see the problem in doing so. I’m not obese, I don’t have health problems, or at least none related to my fridge-raiding habits, and if there’s one moment in the day you’ll find me smiling naturally and unconsciously, it’s when I’m in the kitchen stirring a big pot of curry.

There’s nothing wrong with loving food, waking up with recipes screaming at me, vivid images of dishes I once had the pleasure of trying, meals planned out for the day, week or even a month from now. Some obsess over celebrities, I obsess over perfectly cooked eggs. Yum.


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