My Relationship with Food

Though I've been in New York for many years now--and it is very much my home--I'm originally from the small city of Bakersfield in the heart of the miserably hot California desert. 

Like so many places in the world, this country likes to conveniently forget its underdogs and, as a result, the gap between the extremely wealthy and devastatingly poor is huge. My family fell (rather resoundingly) into the latter category. I still remember the day I discovered what the monetary definition was for poverty. I was surfing the web under the cooler (despite living in the desert we did not have air-conditioning, just a soggy smelling swamp cooler that barely cooled the livingroom, let alone the rest of the house). I looked up at my dad--I knew then how much he made, though now the number escapes me, and our mother made no monetary contribution--and said something like, "Oh my gosh, dad, that means we live in poverty!" Angrily, he grabbed the ever-present hat off his head and yelled, "Don't you think I know that?!"

It didn't seem obvious to me that we were so poor, we had game consuls and dial up, there were so many people out there who had even less, I thought we were fortunate--at least we had a house. But as I got older, I began to notice the flaws; the mold on the bathroom walls, the torn linoleum, and my father confessed that we hadn't been making rent regularly for a very long time. Suddenly, it occurred to me how big my friends' houses were compared to mine, how clean and perfectly decorated. And how had I not noticed their awkward behavior when they came to visit? It was not a flattering realization.

Somehow, I never noticed the food. For us, it was normal to go weeks eating only Ramen Noodles and instant potatoes. A good, satisfying meal was a luxury. And, since both my parents and I suffered from severe acid reflux, our choices for food were even further limited. Of course, it certainly didn't help that we constantly ate fast food. 

So food--however unhealthy and full of salt--was nourishment. We weren't given the chance to enjoy it. 

I remember the first time I tried something that was considered 'good.' We were celebrating something (I can't remember what) and decided to go to an upscale French restaurant. I don't remember what I ordered, I was pretty young so it was most likely something that would make the restaurant's classically trained chef cringe. What I do remember is my dad's order. Though he had grown up on the same high-carb, typically Southern style cooking as the rest of us, he had always been more adventurous and therefore had a more refined palate. He ordered pickled tongue. I was fascinated by the very idea that one could eat something that others use to eat with. I couldn't wait to see what it looked like, but what was most important (especially for the eventual foodie I would become) was that I really wanted to try it. The meat was much thinner than I had anticipated, and very chewy. I don't know what I expected it to taste like, but it was sour and somewhat salty--a combination of flavours I would eventually come to love. I was surprised that I liked it.

It wasn't until I was much older that I realized all food could be that good; it didn't have to just be nourishment, it could be just as exciting and interesting as the books I spent most of my time devouring. 

Though it would take years for my acid reflux to even allow me to be adventurous (and it still hinders me on occasion), I began to develop a great appreciation and eventual love for food. 

Now, though I don't make much more than my dad did (and, in fact, probably don't make more at all), I try never to let food become so unimportant. Even something as seemingly insignificant as a sandwich can be the best meal you've ever had.

So, the moral of the story is, love your food. Even if you're picky (I still hate onions), because a lot of people--even in a country as plentiful as the United States--don't get that luxury.