I belong to a book club. One evening we decided to watch the movie version of a book we’d read. Starting earlier than usual, we called for pizza delivery.

We decided to order three pizzas and began selecting toppings. I was one of two who supported pepperoni. The other six alluded to diet and health concerns and debated vegetable toppings, heavy on the mushrooms, light on the cheese. We ordered one pepperoni and two vegetarian pizzas.

When dinner arrived, the first pizza consumed was, you guessed it, the one with pepperoni. I got one piece. The other pepperoni constituent was more observant, noticed the run on the minority pie and took two slices the first time through the serving line.

I was fascinated. I suspect that the only members who noticed the discrepancy between avowed and actual food preferences were us two unapologetic omnivores. I can even imagine the clichéd rationalization used by our lean, blazing-eyed comrades: “Just this once won’t hurt. Not like people who eat meat all the time...” What accounts for the circumscribed awareness of the majority?

Omnivores, today, bear the burden of heightened sensitivity to the nuances of food politics because we are in the line of fire. We are blamed for our own diseases and everyone else’s. We are blamed for what is perceived as humanity’s disease and the earth’s disease. We abet The Destruction.

These columns display eminent ambivalence. One week I publish a recipe for meatloaf. Later I plead, “Try using less meat.” I create a recipe for a hearty vegetable salad, and throw in roast beef. I warn about food additives and use a synthetic sauce mix, probably more akin to powdered plastic than parmesan cheese (but, I tell myself, it tastes good, it cooks up nicely, and we won’t fall over dead right away), in a vegetarian entrée. How can I deign to write about food without a clear focus?

It is precisely the ebb and flow in my consideration of food that prompts me to write. I have noticed that I am one among many who, in trying to stay afloat with food, sometimes exuberantly surf the tube and sometimes tread behind the swell, fearful of the tribe on shore.

Let me give you an example that has played out in the last three years or so in my life. I vaguely remember a verbal uprising against the use of foie gras, in large part because of the way the geese are force-fed to produce succulent little livers. This was also around the time that the more civilized among us became aware of and upset by conditions at chicken factory-farms. It’s been a long time, though, since I’ve heard anything about these two issues. Less than a season ago, I recall noticing in the state-wide tabloid food section a recipe for a rich terrine that employed foie gras. I wondered as I read the stunningly decadent ingredients, is it okay to enjoy foie gras, again? Can I eat chicken without cringing, now?

While food, today, is still about preparation and pleasure, it is also about prudence and pathology. As I observed last week, it’s becoming a religious fixation.

Where do I stand on food? Depends on the day. I won’t argue with you who advocate healthier eating. If you feel and test better following a prescribed set of dietary guidelines, I’ll cheer you on. It’s just not clear to me that I’m healthier when I pursue health-by-doctrine. I will cook regulation for you, I’ll probably even enjoy what we eat together. Then, two days hence, hands wrist deep in a ground meat mixture that contains a lethal amount of protein, I will probably day dream of what magic seasoned, fermented goose livers would perform on my humble concoction.

Health, to me, is an ambiguous concept. When I contemplate the question, “Don’t you want health and longevity?”, I think of Stephen Hawking. I’d love to possess his brain. The catch is, he attributes the extraordinary development of his intellect to the circumstances surrounding his disease.

Remember the fallen angel character Dennis Franz played in City of Angels? That’s me. I’ll try anything, almost, depending on the circumstances. Every day of my life I’ve been ready to die in the moment and ready to live another moment. I’m not fudging or idealizing. I don’t know why this is true. All I know is that while fear has occasionally conditioned my response to society, it has never conditioned my response to disease or death. I have, accordingly, never felt the need to be saved. Sometimes, I imagine that because I heartily expose myself to everything in my many and varied environments, and do it with a light, curious heart, I will somehow be spared any devastating consequences, or, at least, my reaction to what I ingest will not be as bad as “they” say. I consider these quirks gifts. Most people I know consider them insane.

Will I continue to philosophize and evangelize about food? Yup. Will I continue to support high cholesterol and high nutrition? Yup. Will I continue to publish a healthy recipe one week and a decadent recipe the next? Yup. You see, I walk a fine and wavy line when it comes to food. I was, firstly, born to enjoy the sensuality of food. I am picky, but I rarely think about my blood sugar when I plan and prepare food. Lately, though, I have been taking my mother’s blood sugar into consideration. It has rendered an interesting and surprisingly invigorating way of eating that I will discuss in further columns. Her recent diagnosis of Type II Diabetes is alarmingly on the rise in middle-agers but not uncommon, and often not a health problem, in those of advanced age. Even in her relatively homogenous doctor’s office (all employees are specialists in geriatrics) there is disagreement. Her primary physician believes that while any treatment will probably decrease the immediate affects, for her, of sugar overload, which included a certain haziness of outlook, if she never, or only haphazardly treated it, she would not prolong her life but simply leave unaffected what we think of as the quality of her life. Although I have noticed a pleasant difference, it is debatable whether she has. Anyway, her diet, as is best for her age group and general physical make-up, has gone from carbohydrate heavy to protein heavy, with a normal emphasis on fats. “Don’t let her lose weight,” every one of her providers cautions at each visit. So I don’t. Which pleases my mother. She loves muscled protein and fat. She was raised on it.

I asked her, the other day, “Are you pleased that you made it across the millennial divide? Did you ever wonder about whether you would?”

“I never thought about it,” she said.

Now that we are eating a protein heavy diet (which I don’t mind from a sensual standpoint and I am in love with my energy level), taking more after my father’s than my mother’s side of the family, I wonder if my veins are clogging dangerously, meal by meal. So, I add more vegetables. I use what I think of as cleaner fats; olive oil, canola oil, peanut oil in a pinch. I sneak fiber heavy fruits, that my mother is disallowed and her body has proven she does not need, which I imagine scrub through my system like chimney sweeps.

My mother never worried about how the plattered food before her would affect her life-span. She just turned a relatively comfortable 83. I’ve thought about it, but not worried about it. I’m mildly surprised that I’m still alive, and I’m only, this year, turning 49. I wonder if I have a long way to go, and then I decide to make teriyaki steak with lusciously marbled rib-eyes. My mother salivates, eats a hearty meal, and stays up later than usual. So do I. Am I trading off anything? I don’t know.

Why can’t I make up my mind about food? Because I haven’t made up my mind about life. I’m waiting to see what the next shadow reveals.

Text, Recipes & Graphics ©2000 by Gail Rae Hudson

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