I spent the final quarter of 2021 unable to eat much of anything; it seems my small intestine has all but shut down. And this has offered time—far too much time, alas—to reflect in anguished repose on the place of food in my life.
I will summarize those observations someday soon. For now, I wanted to share three observations—none terribly original, but perhaps of some interest to those (including my future self) in a better gastrointestinal state.
One: I can think of no gustatory pleasure greater than the cracking of fresh bread over soup. Science will not replicate it. Dessert cannot dethrone it.
I see in my relationship with bread the nutritionism that Michael Pollan has discussed so well. Avoid that batard and its bastardly carbs! (But overindulge in your girlfriend’s meringue.) Obsess the details and neglect the whole.
I look forward to breaking bread once again.
Two: We can count food, along with sex and money, as an appetite that few of us handle well. We continue to turn natural necessity into unnatural vice. 40%+ of us are fat. The number grows annually.
How will this end? What revolution can slow or reverse it?
Three: The next time you’re sick and need some light TV fare, Clarkson’s Farm was a surprising 💯. (Note: your mileage will vary based on proximity to/interest in farming.)