The Emotion of Food

Turns out food is actually an emotion.

I didn't know this until I started compiling a menu for weight loss.

See, at work we just released a new weight loss product, and on our website we're going to have all these resources for people trying phase 2 of New Year's Resolutions, where you realize it's March and you haven't actually started, and then, motivated by crushing guilt and post-Valentine's chocolate weight, you spend a couple weeks buying weight loss products and thinking about cooking from weight loss menus, before deciding that, Hey! You lost 2 whole pounds! You're doing just fine, and should probably celebrate those 2 pounds with Bavarian cream donuts.

Because you've earned it.

Anyway, the menu I'm compiling comes from a book that lists what you should eat for a 2,000 calorie diet, and then has modifications for 1600 and 1200 calories.

Wow.

So much emotion. I never knew food could rip into my heart like that.

Let me give an example.

My first reaction, as I see strictly proscribed breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner (yes, your snacks are proscribed for you... and you only get one) is a sort of dread. But... what if I want two snacks? What if I get hungry at 10:37 AM, and it's not time for lunch yet? What about second breakfast? Elevensies? Afternoon tea? Supper?

I don't think the guy who wrote this book knew about second breakfast.

My next reaction varies, depending on the menu item. When I get to snack, and it says "Cottage Cheese, Pear, Walnuts," I sort of gag a little in my mouth.

I'm sorry, but a "snack" is a brownie with ice cream on it, followed by a bag of fruit snacks. If you're feeling creative, put the fruit snacks on the ice cream. If you're feeling virtuous, use one of the Fiber One brownies that has enough fiber in it to make you feel like you're eating something healthy, and then confirms your personal health-choice by making you gassy enough to stave off the planet's energy crisis. Don't give me this 4 oz. of no-salt cottage cheese and a tablespoon of walnuts crap.

Then I get to dinner. Roast chicken breast, baked potato, honey glazed carrots, salad, and frozen yogurt.

What happens in my heart? Relief! Oh, the joy! Listen to those menu items! Roast chicken breast? Into my head immediately pops one of those rotisserie chickens from the deli section of the grocery store. Like, a whole chicken. Baked potato? Mmmmmm! Butter and cheeeeeeeese!!!! Honey glazed carrots? You know, I had a roommate who made the most perfect version of those I have ever encountered. Salad... meh. Sure. Have your greens, I guess. But it'd better be a Caesar salad with Parmesan cheese and croutons. Frozen yogurt? Now we're talking! TCBY, baby!

Oh... but I'm not recording the 2,000 calorie version.

No, I start going through the details and portions on the items. You only get 3 oz. of chicken breast, and it's a breast with no... anything. Just chicken. No sauce. No glaze. Not even the skin.
Same with the baked potato. Not even butter. Just potato. Oh, and if you're doing the 1200 calorie version, you only get half a potato.
The carrots still look good. You can have a full cup of those.
The salad... not Caesar. And you only get a single, tiny tablespoon of dressing.
The frozen yogurt? 1/2 a cup. That's it. And if you're on the 1200 diet, nothing.
Seriously, nothing. No dessert at all.

Do you know what emotion this makes? Do you know what I feel?

Sadness.

Crushing, heart-heavy sadness.

The weight of all the food I can't eat sits on my chest, threatening to cave it in as I fight through the pain, reminding myself that I just have to type the menu, not adhere to it.

But food.

Food is heavy stuff.