Food for thought

Sunday evening. Dinner, you have been had. I know some people who (with reason) mock other people who talk about what they had to eat that day. But the following can't be helped; I am, with out shame, a passionate food lover. And nothing comes between my words and my passions.

See, I am not a cook. And not elaborate. But when I eat my spinach salad with strawberry slices sprinkled with freshly squeezed (Why does squozen sound right to me? Apparently squoze is not even a word, let alone squozen. Maybe its all so confusing because squeeze is one of the weirdest words in the English language. In fact I just looked up the etymology of the word and its origin is unknown. It is supposed that it was some alteration of a word in Obsolete English. No wonder.) I have to start that sentence over again. Note to self: do not put a whole paragraph in parentheses. Dickens can pull it off without the use of parentheses but he does not go obtusely off topic. So don't even try it.

Let's try this again: But when I eat my spinach salad with strawberry slices sprinkled with freshly squeezed lemon juice, I feel like a queen. You can't imagine how posh I imagine myself as I then eat a desert of plain yogurt with slices of banana and strawberries. Oh the bitterness. Oh the sweetness. Oh the bittersweet. I may be alone alone (twice for emphasis; and irony) in my love of my many, weird, as many have told me "disgusting" , "healthy" concoctions, but I am happy. Because it is all worth it when afterward I reward myself with half a bar of chocolate and a bowl of French ice cream and have absolutely no guilt. Yes, I get two desserts because I am a big girl.

Now I'll tell you what this has to do with my French travels, since this "is" a travel blog after all. Five years and 4 months ago in Rennes I met a boy. His name was Romain. Romain was obsessed with English, United States, England. Yes. But he never denounced his origins and was a frenchie, through and through. One day while chilling in his apartment I found myself complaining to him about my weight gain there in France despite walking everywhere and eating vegetables for like the first time in my life. He was obviously a true friend because he let me complain. And listened. And then offered wise French counsel/explanation: "it's because you don't love your food," he says. I then persist in telling him that that was exactly my problem-I loved my food far too much. He continued "No, you're an American, you do not love your food; because after you eat you feel guilty. You cannot truly love while you are suppressing guilt." Profound, no? A life lesson on love from food. Only in France. And it is true, we Americans are a guilty species. According to a comparative studies book entitled "Francais Americain" I read back in college, this is due to our nation's birth in the context of strong religious traditions. And with that underlying quaker mentality, ensuing guilt.

As a side note, Romain, my long lost food and love connoiseur is going to be coming to Marseilles mid-August. Hurray for old and long lost friends.

Thus began, at the ripe age of 19, a love for food and a dismissal of guilt in that arena of my life thanks to a little trick called self justification. I encourage you all to therefore do as the French and love your food. Chew slowly, savor the texture, the taste. Swallow, then repeat. Do not eat with the tv on. Do not eat standing up. Set the table with the same kind of excitement as you would when putting Christmas decorations.

On my mission I started a new tradition by adding a little foreplay into the whole love affair with food: singing to it. Telling it how delicious it was going to be. How juicy. How sweet. How fresh. How crispy and full of "greesy goodness" (a term reserved for my infamous quesadillas). And no, I would not use a gollum voice. My companions got a kick out of that, my impromptu lyrics usually put to the tunes of Christmas or primary songs. Of course, I don't eat much meat (remember, I don't cook and meat involves too many ways to mess up) and so singing to my food is a perfectly humane thing to do. It's not like I would dream of singing the following to a hamburger (to the tune of O Christmas Tree), "Oh hamburger, oh hamburger , I am so glad you died for me. You were a cow, and now you're not. You were cold (in the freezer), and now you're hot. I'm grilling you, I'm grilling you, you love my spices, yes you do". Loving your food is a subtle art. You have to know when you're crossing the line.