Food's Allure
A very wise, gentle man asked me a question recently that provoked a lot of thought. He's a weight loss coach and I have been working with him, on and off, for about two years now. The question he asked was: What is the most important question about weight loss and/or self discovery that you would like to have answered?
So, I thought about this, and this is what I came up with: Why is it that food is so important to me? More specifically, why is it that other people -- "healthy" people, for want of a better word -- see food as simply food, eat, and don't give it a second thought, but I, on the other hand, attach such importance to it, such meaning, such ... depth. For the answer to this question is the resolution of my weight loss issues. If I could figure out a way to get the same kind of satisfaction from other things than food, then I wouldn't eat when I'm not hungry, or stressed, or bored, or lonely, or horny, or ... whatever.
I know that while I was growing up, food was always a source of both frustration and bliss for me. My parents were both of European descent, and often the food my mom or dad cooked did not appeal to me. I longed for the typical Canadian/American fare of hamburgers and fries, that sort of thing. But instead I would smell sauerkraut or something else cooking and my parents' attitude was always: If you're hungry, you'll eat it, you're not getting anything else! So more often than not my stomach would grumble in protest as I sat in front of my plate, refusing to eat what was put there. Then food became something surreptitious. My brothers and I would go out for walks on Sunday afternoons, and my oldest brother, who was working and had money, would buy us what we all craved: chocolate, potato chips ... junk food. We would pig out and go home. This food was very rarely available in the house, so it always felt like we were being really bad by indulging in it.
So why did I choose to turn to food instead of a pair of arms around me for comfort? Because they weren't available. My parents were tired people and had little energy for us kids after working, cleaning and cooking. The affection just wasn't there. Occasionally my dad would cuddle me or spend time with me, telling me stories, but it was never enough. I was always voracious, for love as much as food. One particular thing that has always stood out in my mind is my dad's potato pancakes. It was one of the few items of European cuisine that my juvenile palate absolutely adored. They were so incredibly good. I can remember coming home from school and smelling them frying and being in heaven, realizing that they were going to be for dinner. I would sit down and he would slide them from the spatula right onto my plate, still spattering from the hot oil. There would be cold sour cream to dollop on top of them, and hot tomato soup to start. The combination of the hot pancakes and the cold sour cream, the saltiness and slightly gummy texture of the potatoes epitomizes my childhood. I've tried making them since, tried to duplicate them, but there is just no way.
Food is so much more than food to me. Butter pecan ice cream is not simply cream, pecans, sugar, monosodium glutamate and whatever else it consists of. It's love, it's comfort, it's carresses, it's happiness, it's joy, it's total bliss. Until I can find it somewhere else, I know that it'll be waiting for me in the freezer, ready for me to spoon up whatever it has to offer me.
So, I thought about this, and this is what I came up with: Why is it that food is so important to me? More specifically, why is it that other people -- "healthy" people, for want of a better word -- see food as simply food, eat, and don't give it a second thought, but I, on the other hand, attach such importance to it, such meaning, such ... depth. For the answer to this question is the resolution of my weight loss issues. If I could figure out a way to get the same kind of satisfaction from other things than food, then I wouldn't eat when I'm not hungry, or stressed, or bored, or lonely, or horny, or ... whatever.
I know that while I was growing up, food was always a source of both frustration and bliss for me. My parents were both of European descent, and often the food my mom or dad cooked did not appeal to me. I longed for the typical Canadian/American fare of hamburgers and fries, that sort of thing. But instead I would smell sauerkraut or something else cooking and my parents' attitude was always: If you're hungry, you'll eat it, you're not getting anything else! So more often than not my stomach would grumble in protest as I sat in front of my plate, refusing to eat what was put there. Then food became something surreptitious. My brothers and I would go out for walks on Sunday afternoons, and my oldest brother, who was working and had money, would buy us what we all craved: chocolate, potato chips ... junk food. We would pig out and go home. This food was very rarely available in the house, so it always felt like we were being really bad by indulging in it.
So why did I choose to turn to food instead of a pair of arms around me for comfort? Because they weren't available. My parents were tired people and had little energy for us kids after working, cleaning and cooking. The affection just wasn't there. Occasionally my dad would cuddle me or spend time with me, telling me stories, but it was never enough. I was always voracious, for love as much as food. One particular thing that has always stood out in my mind is my dad's potato pancakes. It was one of the few items of European cuisine that my juvenile palate absolutely adored. They were so incredibly good. I can remember coming home from school and smelling them frying and being in heaven, realizing that they were going to be for dinner. I would sit down and he would slide them from the spatula right onto my plate, still spattering from the hot oil. There would be cold sour cream to dollop on top of them, and hot tomato soup to start. The combination of the hot pancakes and the cold sour cream, the saltiness and slightly gummy texture of the potatoes epitomizes my childhood. I've tried making them since, tried to duplicate them, but there is just no way.
Food is so much more than food to me. Butter pecan ice cream is not simply cream, pecans, sugar, monosodium glutamate and whatever else it consists of. It's love, it's comfort, it's carresses, it's happiness, it's joy, it's total bliss. Until I can find it somewhere else, I know that it'll be waiting for me in the freezer, ready for me to spoon up whatever it has to offer me.
posted by emily pound at 9:01 AM
3 Comments:
What a wonderful story and, looking back on it, see how many of your positive memories of the time you spent with your parents growing up was defined and related to the food into which they poured their love and affection. Of course, there are other things which have to take an important part of our passions too, or our entire worlds will just revolve around foods. But, you shouldn't blame your parents.. they passed on their passion for food to you, a way in which they passed on their childhoods and cultural heritage to you. Your passions are and have to be ones that you take the time and attention to select and nurture so that they define you in a special way and which you can then pass along to your progeny.
Most people talk about doing things in moderation, but I think this leads to a dull, repetitive existence. You need to follow your passions and allow your inner self expression through the things that make your juices flow and your mind drool with anticipation and glee.
I can recall similar culinary moments when my mother made dishes from "the old country" which may have embarrassed me if my friends saw them, though of course when they did they were amazed by how different and tasty they were and the only embarrassment was that I thought my own parents to be embarrassing. I see the same cycle with my kids, but am much less understanding of them not experiencing their heritage. I tell them that as they grow up they will decide on their future, but I feel it my job to give them a solid sense of where they come from and who their parents and ancestors are and were. With that solid background I am comfortable that they will wisely make an informed decision about how they want to live their lives. I don't begin to believe that modern culture(as embodied in the commercials and advertisements we are bombarded with) should be allowed to frame their existences.
Anyhow.. cool post, even if you meant it differently than I interpreted it.
I don't blame my parents, although God knows I used to. :-) Now that I am older and wiser, and have the gift of perspective, I see that they did the best they could. Also, that WASPy existence I so coveted when I was younger, and the European background I wanted to disassociate myself from ... for many years I have done just the opposite, embraced my culture, background and heritage and appreciate it for the gift it is.
Glad you liked this blog. I loved writing the part about the potato pancakes. When I was writing it, I was right back in my childhood kitchen, sitting at that formica-topped kitchen table with the black curlicue designs, sitting there drooling with my stoamch rumbling ... :-) I agree with you that living life in moderation can be a pretty dismal existence. Life is meant to be lived and things experienced ... that isn't to say we should indulge carelessly in everything (that would be pretty fun, though, wouldn't it, if we really indulged ourselves?) ... but when you regiment yourself so absolutely ... what is left of YOU? who are you?
I'm an emotional eater too. Only I don't know why. I've gotten better, I've filled up that void with friends and writing and books, instead of a Hershey's or a bag of Lays. It's really really hard thing to fight.
It's something that's been there since I was a little girl. Being raised in the south there's a lot of emphasis on food. On GOOD food lol I have a lot of memories tied to food. Family get togethers, Fourth of July, Christmas, birthdays, etc... So eating certain food brings back those feelings.
It's a hard thing to combat. You have my empathy.
~Lily
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